TaoG: NY
by tijn
Summary: Greg, Shirra and their little band flee a war zone and end up in 1980's New York. They get a chance to build a new life there, in another parallel universe. While the place appears like home, it isn't home. Note: This is a tale set in a Furry Universe, with Sci-Fi elements and time-shifts. This is a continuation of a story where Greg and Shirra meet.
1. Chapter 1

Greg and Shirra, NY

1\. Big Apple

Adam navigated the traffic, cursing the badly balanced front tires. He could feel the rumble in the steering wheel. "Crappy Japanese cars!" he cursed, hitting the brand name on his steering wheel.

A sliver of sunshine pierced the clouds and reached his eye between the flipped up visors. "Damn!" he muttered, squinting against the intensity, "I hate New York!"

The car in front of him stopped for a yellow. "It's yellow, you stupid socialist!" he screamed against his windshield, without any effect of course. Shaking on its suspension, his little car halted behind the big Lincoln that had stopped. Adam checked his wristwatch. "I'm gonna be late!" he said again.

People walked on the crosswalk. He noticed one of the dogfaces crossing. "They should drive over those mutts," he hoped fervently. Nothing good would ever come of those types. Blacks were one thing, but these 'dog humans' should have stayed in China. It was no wonder the Chinese wanted them to move out. Who could blame them?

"They work so hard," some people said. "For almost nothing!" Adam cursed. The dog people didn't fall under any legislation pertaining to humans. Their status in the USA was as uncertain as the missing information on their kind in the constitution.

"We'll see!" Adam hoped the new president would make short work of those mongrels.

The light shone green and the luscious town car in front of him moved smoothly on. Adam's car jerkily followed. His father had owned a very nice Buick once. Oh, those were the days. "And I'm stuck in a world without jobs and dog-faced fake people!"

At the train station he took the metro to his job and Adam reached the building with the novel execution program for detainees on death row five minutes late. He sighed, as he went in through the revolving doors, collected his badge at the counter and, like a war-victim, trudged with a heavy feeling down the stairs to the basement where 'the setup' was housed. He didn't agree with the program he worked for at all. Yet it was his only source of income. Not that he minded executing criminals, it was just the free ride offered to the refugees they got in return.

"Bah," he said angry, almost bumping into the head honcho of the scientists.

"Professor Badger!" Adam said, looking up, "I'm so sorry!"

She looked at him for a moment, over her glasses, nodded with a forced smile and walked on. Withering under that gaze, part of him felt like a speck of dirt.

When she was out of earshot, Adam walked on muttering a hearty set of profanities ending in 'nut case'. Professor Badger was a weird woman, he'd heard her described as 'ascetic' but until now he had not remembered to look it up in the dictionary. Actually, he had not remembered to look up the dictionary. And so, thinking about the meaning of that expensive word, walked on, looking at the floor.

"Hi Adam," he looked up to see Ilse standing there. The blonde woman was luscious, friendly, well dressed and would make a great secretary for someone, somewhere, sometime. Adam accepted her ruefully, Ilse should be under the guide of a man but instead she was his coworker. There were simply too many women working in this whole thing! Moreover, they were all self-confessed socialists. In short, Adam concluded, he was working with a bunch of bloody commies and he wasn't sure if it was an act of treason to work with commies.

"Hi Ilse," Adam nodded mechanically, "what's up? Seen the paper?" he asked, feeling unpleasant and in need to take it out on someone.

"Ah?" Ilse stopped her normal happiness and prepared for the bad news that was undoubtedly going to follow with a frown.

Adam threw the paper on the console, narrowly missing dials and buttons.

"Hey!" Ilse scolded him, picking the paper up and frowning darkly at him.

"What?" he asked, challenging with his arms wide.

"I'm not telling on you for being late. You could be a little more forthcoming, Adam!"

"Touché," he agreed.

Ilse read the headline aloud. "Dog man attacks human."

Adam let her read on and started preparing the system per the latest information from the techies and scientists. The settings didn't make any sense, but then again he admitted he didn't understand the first thing about this infernal machine. It was the result of the previous administration: a human execution second chance sort of thing. A convict went in and you got a 'second-chancer' back. According to professor Badger it meant the people that you got in return weren't bad and saved from worse and as such refugees who needed a matching status in the US.

That was what Adam disliked the most, the "official refugee status". It meant people got a permanent residential status from the get-go. For free. So, that infernal machine was a leak in the US borders, that's what it was.

After an hour, when all was set, Ilse picked up the paper. "You should read carefully, Adam. It's not at all clear that this dog person attacked."

Annoyed at her use of the term 'dog person' Adam bit back, "The mongrel did! Every dog is a dog. Give me a genuine type on a leash and I'm your man."

Ilse flashed him a nice smile at that last statement but Adam could only think 'commie'.

"Adam, I really don't like it when you call our dog faced co-humans a mongrel."

"Dogface?" Adam tried, annoying her.

"Adam! That's derogatory too, and well you know it!"

"Ilse, honey, twenty years ago they all lived in China. Look where we stand now? They're multiplying in our city. We haven't jobs for them; they're stupid and can only do the simplest things. Stealing jobs, I say."

Ilse looked away in disgust but couldn't stop a peek at his muscular chest. Adam knew he looked the part. The good Lord had given him looks but no big brain. Ilse was smarter than him and that irked him a lot. People like Madame Professor Badger were another league, he didn't care about her. Even if it was weird she was a woman. And on top of that she was a weird woman. Kind of like a weird weirdo woman, Adam chuckled almost silently.

"Right," Ilse announced, "first order of business. We've a test with a pair of bank robbers."

Ilse kept calling the executions 'tests'. Weird. He was surrounded by weirdo women. But then he recalled the news show.

"Oh! The ones that shot all those people?"

"The very same."

Adam smiled. "Great, I hope they turn to dog food."

"They're still people, Adam."

He frowned at her. "As far as I'm concerned: no. They lost their civil rights when they did that."

"Really?" she asked with a hint of play, "less rights than a dog man?"

Adam thought about that. "I guess," he agreed reluctantly.

Ilse pressed the button next to the phone and picked up the receiver. "This is operations, we're ready."

She waited for the reply, adjusted a few dials and read the meters. "OK" she said in the receiver and put it down.

"There they come," she said and nodded to the room with the setup.

The crooks were ushered in at gun point and made to sit on the slide through the huge tetrahedron machine, also known to everyone as the setup.

"See how big they are?" Adam asked Ilse while shaping his hands around his body to indicate their girth and feeling safe behind the bullet proof glass.

"They seem like four people!" Ilse looked aghast.

"Geez," Adam agreed.

"Action!" Ilse yelled loudly in the microphone. The security force professionally verified the cage placement and set it down over the new arrivals. "Hut!" the sergeant called out and the security folks retreated behind their protective walls and a lamp on the console lit up. An impressive array of steel muzzles pointed at the arrival point. A fist went up, signaling they were ready and silence reigned.

"Showtime," Adam said, "can I?" he asked.

Ilse nodded.

Adam turned his key at the same time as Ilse and lifted the hatch to reach the red main energizing button. He held it down and a siren sounded while orange flashing lights in the ceiling lit up.

"OK, Go!" Adam said in the speaker that was amplified in the room in front of them, with the tetrahedron shaped setup. The pair of murders were moved down the smooth ramp with some force, they slid down and they screamed like little babies. Adam felt his bile rise, thinking he heard the same cries these bastards ignored when they shot people in the bank. Prisoner '41' and '45' were on their way to an unknown destination. Adam knew the numbers were meant to keep any personal feelings to a minimum but these guys… their case had been nationwide on the news. They needed to burn! Right now, he hoped that weird professor Badger knew what she was doing. He didn't understand it, but according to her there were 'mathematical certainties' that these murders would be executed. Perhaps painfully. He really hoped Miss Badger was right and that a 'mathematical certainty' meant 'for sure'.

Electrical power surged through high voltage vacuum tubes in arcs and through relays accompanied with flashes and sparks while the setup came alive. The pair moved through, a loud pang sounded, and they were gone. In their trajectory a huddle of refugees appeared.


	2. Chapter 2

2\. Arrival

The cage mechanism worked smoothly and locked the new arrivals in place. At first Adam thought they received a guy in fur coats. But no, it was a bundle of… well, what exactly, Adam wasn't sure. In the back of his mind he registered 'dog face'.

Adam expected this group of refugees to show the normal signs of transfer: out cold. But the freshly arrived man shook his head and looked around. Ilse was already going to the reception room and he quickly followed her, lest she would make any unhealthy decisions, like hugging the new arrivals.

Ilse was really the woman's-lib sort, emancipation was her middle name. At the same time it was violently clear that she was just a woman. Yes, Ilse looked nice and he didn't mind having her around for her looks, but to say he was lucky to be working with her would be stretching the truth.

Ilse rearranged her white lab coat and stood in the white washed reception area. She adjusted her glasses and noted the number and species of the new arrivals on her clipboard.

"Four, Adam!" she called over her shoulder. The security detail was standing down and most of them were dismissed. Adam saw them leave and was thinking about the number Ilse had called out. Four? Surprised, he entered the room with the setup and inspected the bundle of people on the ramp. They looked harmless, that much was for certain. Ilse nodded to the sergeant and with two M16s at the ready he pulled the security lever that unlocked the cage door at the receiving end of the inter-dimensional setup.

Ilse clearly was smitten with one of the arrivals but Adam knew what his job was. He approached the man who looked dizzy. "Can, You, Understand, Me?" Adam said, loudly and slowly.

"Yes, I, Can," the man replied equally staccato. He was heaving with exertion, smelled sweaty. But despite his state, he answered in clear English. That was a first! Adam smiled, noting two things. One: Well, well, a sense of humor and Two: a British accent.

"Gee, you're British?" Adam asked as Ilse made a note on the form.

The black haired, short, colored man on the ramp cleared his throat and pulled a hand through his disheveled hair. Adam had finally arrived at the count of four, like Ilse before him. So, they received one man, possibly a half-blood or a Mexican, and two snoutfaces of which one was in a dress so that had to be a female. He'd never seen a female snout! Finally, the number four was what looked like a toddler shaped man-dog. The new would say 'mog'. There had to be small mogs of course, but those were kept hidden. Mogs kept their kids and females locked up, safely and away in their own little world.

The man on the setup seemed to take him up and Adam tilted his head, expecting a question.

"Adam? Can I call you Adam? What day is it today?"

A presumptuous, but under the circumstances, not too strange question. For all he knew, this guy had left tomorrow or yesterday.

Adam verified the day of the month on his watch and said, "Friday 6 march 1981."

The man seemed to consider this. Slowly, questioning, the man on the setup repeated the year. The guy was sitting there, on the ramp through the setup, unperturbed, with two snoutfaces and a snoutface kid.

"1981?" the man questioned.

Adam considered the new arrivals. What a score. He had not in his whole life seen so many dog people. He was sure they were supposed to look like dogs, these were more reminiscent of cats. Anyway, who was he to judge? No one knew really a lot about them doggie guys. What was for sure though, was that they stole jobs.

Perhaps these new furballs were dead?

"Hey, Ilse, you see that? Three ugly and maybe dead snoutfaces."

Ilse's face went livid but she regained control.

"Oh," Adam said innocently, "I mean mogs."

For good measure she looked at him sourly. She hated the names used to describe the canine in appearance humanoid race that walked this world along with humans. Those dogs were on average so stupid they couldn't turn a key in a lock if their life depended on it. Ilse always went on about them being less smart but having feelings too and how they were treated substandard.

And that was the point: the dog people were _sub_ standard. Stupid. Even a retard was more intelligent than they were. The fact that they were equipped with hands and feet, and walked upright like Homo Erectus only made them canine erectus, not in the same league. Period.

"Dog people?" the colored man asked, a bit amiss.

"Yes," Adam continued and sadly noted one of the dressed snouts was stirring, "with a dress, for a change. I don't think I ever saw females. The small one is male? Never seen one so small either."

The waking dogface was looking around as well, and her attention was divided between him and Ilse, her ears twitched. She was mute, as their race usually was. The toddler and the other doggie were still out cold.

The colored man scratched his head, saying "um…" and looking at the red dressed snoutface. Adam couldn't refute the evidence: she _did_ look like a cat, he _had_ to admit. Her green eyes even had slits. Well, the snouts were all freaks.

"Uh," the snoutface said, still stunned.

"What's your name?" Adam asked the colored man.

"Greg, Greg de Beers. How do you do? Where am I, and what will happen next?"

Adam replied, "You're in New York. Say, you are refugees, right? We just sentenced two criminals to a presumable death. Their deaths are used to recover refugees."

Greg repeated "New York…" then looked behind him, to the setup. "Trust me, they are dead."

Adam nodded satisfied. Ilse was stoic. Then Greg asked, a little weary, "Say, how do you control the setup to that level? I can't imagine a setup to be that well under control. And in 1981, for that matter!"

Adam considered the question. What was this Greg guy talking about? It was clear this man was in the know where the setup was concerned. This was pretty cool, or pretty darn bad, it depended on your view.

"Program?" Ilse asked, "The gauges are correctly set, it's self-aligning, see?" Ilse pointed to the robust made setup with cast iron pins linked in the sturdy metal frame that disappeared outside the ceiling cover.

"Ah," Greg said loftily. Adam decided the guy was clearly lost.

Next, Adam prepared for the official part, clearing his throat. "Greg, you are hereby officially offered asylum in the United States of America. If you accept, you will be provided a token amount of money to start your life and will be appointed a place to live. Your, ah, companions could, in theory, be added to your legal custody."

"Custody?"

Adam went on, "I have the privilege of offering you a work permit which will allow you to remain in the United States for 1 year starting today."

"Asylum and a green-card?" Greg mused, "I'd like that! Can I live in the US then?"

"For sure! We will keep an eye on you and if you behave you can apply for Citizenship."

"Greg? Is that good?"

Adam searched for a moment to find who spoke. It was a clear female voice, controlled and even. He looked at Ilse, she nodded to the catlike snoutface in the red dress, Ilse was equally astounded.

Adam nodded to the white furball in the red dress. "Did that snoutface just speak?"

Greg took note of his words and clambered down from the ramp, even assisting his dumb dog-faced female. The pair stood next to Adam, trying to remain upright. Greg was small, the snout was his height. "I'm Shirra," she said, "Shirra Akazai, assistant supreme at the side of Sir Greg here."

The snoutface curtsied, a bit wobbly. Adam took a step back to Ilse, who stopped him. Had Ilse not stopped him, he might have laughed out loud for the ridicule in front of him.

Ilse hissed in his ear, "You are afraid of smart females, Adam. It does not suit you."

"I'm not!" he hissed back, ignoring the new arrival who was clearly listening in, "You tell me you ever saw a snoutface that smart, well?"

Ilse shrugged, grudgingly agreeing with his point.

"Different world, different rules," Greg declared clearly and started collecting the puppy toddler from the ramp. That left one doggie, and the female in the red dress was inspecting that now.

"Greg, Vivian is not too well, see that wound at the back of her head? I think she got hit by debris of a grenade. We ought to seek medical attention."

Upon hearing that, Adam nudged Ilse, saying, "Two females!"

Greg looked at them. "Three, actually, this here is also a female." He held up the toddler snoutface, which seemed asleep.

Ilse lifted the clipboard and corrected her notes with a few scratches, adding, "Well, that is a great improvement! Three mogs, and females at that." She looked at Adam. "If I see their manners, I would expect they are a great asset to our society. Which is more than I can say for _some_ people."

Ilse meaningfully squinted at Adam before proceeding to help the comatose pants-wearing snoutface from the ramp. Then she turned back to the newly arrived party, explaining, "I am afraid a hospital for mogs is going to be a bit of a problem. But _I_ know a doctor which will help you. Come, we will provide you with a drink of water. It helps clear the head from the transition."

Ilse didn't pick up the pained look in Shirra's face who couldn't for the life of her figure out why 'a drink of water' would be more important than the condition of Vivian. But, if anything, Shirra had learned a few things travelling between realities.

Adam stood and looked at how Ilse grunted with effort as she and the catlike snout were working to support the second snout. Adam was not going to touch any of the mongrels, not in his life! Doggies were smelly and could carry deadly diseases, everybody knew that. Also, they strew hair all over the place. They could not ride public transport or cabs unless well-trimmed and accompanied.

Everybody knew that.

It was just like Ilse to go cooing over this party now. This Greg guy, however, had an intelligent look in his eyes. Who knew how high this man could reach? Sure, the guy was part black but in contrast to his father, Adam never believed all blacks were stupid. Take that rising pop star, Michael Jackson, that guy was seriously all right.

###

The paperwork didn't take too long. Greg received papers with his official status and the three female mogs were added.

Adam noticed how Ilse was very happy. He wondered why she was so happy! There wasn't a good reason; he thought to be so happy with the red dressed mog. The one in pants was still comatose and the toddler seemed to be sleeping, very tired.

Greg had cleaned his face in the restroom and eaten a series of candy bars repeating how much he had missed Snickers. The snoutface in the red dress had produced a comb of sorts from their pack and was using it intermittently. Adam couldn't understand how she could be so… so… he swallowed and accepted the word 'graceful'. Shirra was her name. There was something about her, something he could not dismiss. The red dress was full of burn marks, streaks and generally showed battle results but if anything it _added_ to Shirra's presence. Yes, the cat-like snout was something alright!

But, Adam reminded himself, still a snout. Ilse, in contrast, let her admiration flow freely and tried to engage in conversation with the weird snout who politely evaded that. Didn't Ilse see how they were trying to get going?

"Greg," Adam said to the man, "I'm not sure where you come from, but here you are responsible for their behavior and thanks to the socialists even their well-being. What I want to say is, if they lay a hand on a human you will suffer the consequences. You seem a sensible person, so, are we clear?"

Greg nodded. "No worries mate."

Adam's blue eyes met the dark brown ones of Greg.

"We're cool man," Greg assured him, "I've got this under control."

Adam wasn't too sure. Two snouts and a small one; that was bound to cause issues. Since Adam he was breaching protocol anyway, Adam decided to give Greg a final piece of advice.

"On more thing, Greg."

"Sure?"

"Please understand you are being supported by the US government, generously so. It would be good form not to disappoint the Americans and their tax dollars."

Greg's eyes narrowed. "I'm with you man, I'll find a job."

Adam silently thought, "I was afraid you might say that," but he held his tongue.

Greg sighed, tired. "Adam, I'll keep my own. Really."

Adam smiled, thinking that was at least the right approach.

Finally, Ilse seemed to get the cue from the snoutface and agreed to bring the hurt one to her illegal doctor. Adam helped them into Ilse's nice car. At least _she_ had a corporate spot in the parking garage under the building.

Back in the office Adam sat down and began the rest of the paper work. He started with the official death statements of the prisoners.

"Pfff," he blew and turned the sheets of paper with carbon paper between them into the typewriter. Ilse had written down a lot this time. It would be a long day behind the typewriter. "Every job has its thorns," he hummed and started hitting the keys, hard enough to get the letters on the three carbon copies.


	3. Chapter 3

3\. Hospital

Greg sat in the passenger seat and thought things over. He looked to his driver, Ilse, who was frowning at the parked cars in the parking garage so expressively he could almost hear it. Ilse was expressive and, he was certain, on their side. So, tThe government lady by the name of Ilse meant them well and knew an illegal doctor who was willing to take a look at Vivian.

Willing.

Ilse was government, and also not too much bound by rules, it seemed. That didn't make too much sense, but he was tired. He stifled a yawn, even though the candy bars had helped against the tiredness. Greg couldn't quite grasp what could possibly be illegal about aiding a cat. He looked in the rearview mirror, straining to see Vivian slumped to Shirra. Okay, a _big_ cat. His eyes drifted to the back of the car. The backpack was in the back. The man, Adam had helped them. Adam obviously didn't like them too much.

Greg sniffed, the car stank. Badly too. How many dogs had been in this thing?

"Sorry about the smell," Ilse said, keeping her eyes on the parked cars, "I transport dog persons in my car from time to time."

Ah well, Greg reflected, any transport was good. Ilse drove very carefully through the parking garage. It had not surprised Greg the car had needed a few attempts to start, given the state of the thing it was a small wonder it worked at all. Someone had once told Greg American cars of this era were the worst offering, with the exception of British cars of course. Greg drifted off to think who again had said so, but his befuddled mind didn't allow him.

"It's a bit cold," Ilse said apologetically and her nose had already begun to get runny. Maybe she had just weathered a cold?

Greg half-turned around to Shirra. She was holding Vivian. Amandine was riding along on his lap. He smiled at that, in 2010 you could not take a kid on your lap in a car.

Suddenly the car reached the street, bright light flowed in. The busy traffic and the loud noise assaulted him. For a fraction of a moment Greg saw the explosions of the attacking horse-people in his mind's eye. But this was New York, 1981. That was a genuine _world_ away from the destroyed town of Campone he'd left behind.

In a hurry.

No! He rebuked himself, he'd abandoned them. Left them to die.

"Then again," he thought ruefully, "what could I have done?" What possibly could he have undertaken against those horse-faced barbarians? "Stop criticizing yourself man!" he thought sternly. Less than an hour ago he'd stood in a war zone, in the midst of a bombardment, about to be bombed to death.

To death!

Now he sat safely in a car. A smelly perhaps, but still car. It seemed like another life.

Ilse said something.

"I'm sorry?" Greg blinked.

"I'm said I'm sorry," Ilse repeated.

Greg tried to think back to what had been said, sifting through the scraps of conversation, he arrived at the low temperature in the car.

"We're fine, thank you," Greg nodded nicely but thought the woman overwhelmingly traffic-prone. He preferred it if Ilse used her mind's full capacity to negotiate the traffic. Greg looked around again. Shirra was looking outside with her mouth open, drinking the scenery in.

Greg had never been to New York either, but it wasn't the same for him. He looked to the people on the sidewalk, up to the buildings. It looked different than he'd thought. He could not see any famous landmarks and they were driving slowly, on crowded roads. To Shirra it must be, well, beyond anything she could possibly imagine!

Ilse seemed to think it too quiet in the car. She unnecessarily tried to make some conversation.

"What kind of place are you coming from?" she asked.

"We were being bombarded," Greg said, "We were going to die."

Ilse swallowed apologetically.

Mollified, Greg accepted her attempt to talk. "Ma'am, or is it Miss?"

"Call me Ilse please."

"Good, Ilse, if you will call me Greg."

"Sure, Greg!"

"So, you are working for the government, I take it?"

A nervous laugh indicated he was probably too direct, or else she just had a nervous tick. Ilse took an up ramp, the car swayed momentously in reply.

"You are right, Greg. I'm an employee of the immigration service, but a rather new and unusual branch."

Probing for a bit, Greg tried, "That portal gate is something unexpected, I would say."

"I'm not supposed to get too close to clients, Greg. It pollutes the hierarchy, my boss says."

"He knows best, no doubt."

"Not for me, Greg. I say to hell with bosses. And, actually, our chief scientist would back me up on that. She invented that whole machine, you know. Maybe you can meet her someday."

Invented? Greg thought of Cally Badger, his professor back when he was working on his PhD. Cally! She had once given him a lecture about early 80's cars. Ha! Wouldn't she be stumped to find that portal of hers wasn't just a teaching tool! Call Badger, the always critic, going when it gets tough. Cally would probably be like that, even here.

He Greg saw the signs on the freeway pass by and noted they were in lane for an exit towards 'Queens hospital' as they got in heavy traffic and Shirra sat looking with big eyes ato the cars surrounding them. Upon closer inspection, she was looking at the people _in_ the cars. Amandine was sleeping, curled up, against him. She must feel safe to sleep so!

A mutual quiet went out from her and settled him down too, laying his fears to rest.

Finally, Ilse parked the large family car. Maybe 'park' was the idea, technically it was 'move your car in the ballpark vicinity of the parking spot'. Three cars could have parked there. Greg bit his tongue, thinking he might need Ilse's support at some time in the near future. No use alienating her now, especially because she looked at her car-maneuvering handiwork in a very satisfied manner.

"Wait here, please," Ilse asked and got out.

The door slammed closed and they sat waiting.

"1981," Greg said, thinking of the amount of technology not yet invented. A small analog clock on the dashboard told him the passing time. It crawled.

"How is she doing?" he asked Shirra.

When he didn't get an answer, he looked around and saw Shirra asleep, her head tilted to the side, lolling was a more apt description though.

"Massive shutdown," Greg concluded, "exhaustion coming home to roost." Actually, that made sense as she had been running in virtual overdrive for two days on end.

Greg sighed. Then he suddenly was jerked awake by Ilse. "Greg! I thought you'd all died. Don't give me a fright like that!"

"We're clearly a little more tired than I thought," Greg agreed.

He yawned, and noted Shirra was trying to stretch too.

In a moment they were hauling Vivian to a back door of the hospital, into a busy corridor where everybody passed around them with a peculiar detour. Greg wondered how a leper would have felt.

They reached a little waiting room where Ilse set them down. "Wait here," she said and went off in search for a particular friend of hers. The woman seemed rather agitated.

Greg's little party sat waiting, quite alone, for help. He turned to Shirra. "What do you make of this, Shirra?"

Shirra sat quietly, fingering the hem of her dress at her knee. She had stopped trying to look at all the people.

"It is a strange world," she said, uncertain. "I understand I appear a species that is referred to as 'doggie' or 'snoutface' or 'mog' or probably other terms that I have to assume are derogatory. Then, my coherent speech is disconcerting to these people." Now she looked at him, her eyes followed a passing attendant. "This place is full of humans. Some look like you, others are black, others are white and they look… so…" She didn't finish the sentence. "I've counted so many white women… I mean… how many people can there be?"

She hung her head, in some sort of mental defeat. "It's… a lot to take in."

"I'd imagine so," Greg agreed, reaching for her knee to console her. Greg only realized he'd done so after he felt her hand on his. "Are you OK? I mean, seeing all the, uh, white humans?"

She looked at him with a sad look in her eyes, clearly at a loss but yet hopeful he could help her make sense of it all. "I don't know. None of it fits. They're not blanches, I know that. I see that. And there are _so_ many. I saw some who're black but thin and frail and I have seen some fat white people. Everybody seems to have hair like you do, or even more hair! I've even seen a one or two of the people Ilse referred to as mogs. I…"

Shirra fought against her fatigue, overtiredness pulling her into wooziness. "Well at least we're alive."

"That's the spirit! Even Vivian is breathing, she's just not all 'here', I'm sure that can be remedied."

To support his show of supportive positivism, he patted the slumped form of the white cat, held upright by Shirra. At that Vivian woke up with a start. Amazed, Greg looked on. How she had woken so suddenly, he had no idea but he felt good about it, somewhere he too had felt she might be worse off than she looked.

"Ohhhh. My head," Vivian said in her common language, and tried to focus.

"W… Where am I?" Vivian's blue eyes searched the place with ever increasing trepidation.

Shirra replied softly to her, trying to console the younger female. Shirra too used the Chinese-soundinglike 'common' language of theirs. Greg could follow some of it, bits and pieces; he was too tired to achieve more. In any case, Shirra was quieting her down, and so kept Vivian from freaking out. At length, Vivian looked up at him and at Amandine. He could see how the young cat worried about Amandine.

"She's sleeping," he assured her, "she's had a rough day too."

Vivian nodded and tried to stand. Predictably she collapsed back onto the chairs, and groped her head. Greg saw a doctor hurry down the hallway; his haste didn't stop him from looking at them and shake his head as he continued past. "…bloody furfaces…" was all Greg could make out from it.

Whatever this world was, people were _definitely_ not too thrilled about 'doggies', 'snoutfaces' or 'furfaces' or 'mogs' or whatever they called the furred sort. At the same time, he had understood from that Adam guy that 'cats' were not the normal form of a snout. It stood to reason that a name like 'doggie' meant they were supposed to look like dogs. His thoughts were cut short by the reappearance of their supporter Ilse and her paladin: a doctor, judging from his immaculate white coat.

This was a young black guy who looked at Ilse as if she were the greatest thing on earth; "at least good friends, if not more," Greg thought.

"Doctor Opal, meet Greg from another world. Greg, this is Doctor Opal. He will take a look at your dog person friend."

From the way Ilse said 'Dog Person', Greg heard how special the choice of words was. Ilse was certainly a supporter of equal rights or something like it.

"She is called Vivian, doctor," Greg volunteered. We have just escaped a war and I fear she has a fragment, some metal wedged in her head." Greg was about to add 'shrapnel' by means of explanation but it seemed the doctor was not at ease.

Dr. Opal looked around, and did not acknowledge the two cats. Greg couldn't be sure, but the guy was checking for reactions from the other medical personnel, perhaps trying to see if anyone saw him busy like this. The man, a large guy with brown eyes and a neat tone of skin, so dark it seemed coal black, asked them to follow him. Down a long corridor they went, and into a dark room without windows where Dr. Opal flipped a switch. As tube lights flickered to life, he motioned them to sit on two chairs. Ilse and Shirra kept standing to allow Vivian to sit, Ilse also closed the door.

Dr. Opal was at ease now. Out of earshot and eyeshot of his trusted colleagues, apparently, Greg judged.

"Now, Vivian, let me see," Opal asked in a friendly and appeasing voice. Greg blinked, hearing that! "I'll be," he thought, "that Opal sure knows how to dispel fear using his voice!" Dr. Opal went on, ". I'm going to look at your head injury and you should not worry, Vivian. I will part your fur and push your ears aside, OK?. There is no need to bite or growl."

Both Vivian and Shirra were stumped. This condescending behavior made no sense at all. Greg's lower jaw slowly went down with gravity.

"Can you hear me, Vivian?" Opal's voice sang, " See, my hand, I will put it on your skin, just like I do with my hair now, see? Hold your head still please. Could you tap your hand if you understand?"

Vivian tapped her hand and whispered a question to Shirra about what was going on. While Greg was certain this man was all good intentions, perhaps a bit of explanation would aid things. Unless he was seriously mistaken, Dr. Opal simply didn't know Vivian could speak. Greg put out a hand to stop the doctor, which earned him a reprimanding look by the good doctor. Greg ignored the man's , a slight irritation for stopping him.

"Doctor Opal, please allow me. Vivian and Shirra here speak perfect English. In fact, they are like you and me in every mental aspect conceivable but for their exterior. Perhaps you can see tThey're in fact cats, rather than dogs."

At that moment, Vivian, grabbed her head again, speaking moaning in common tongue. "Ohhh, for the love of the prophet, it is _hurting_ , please help me. ! I feel like I'm dying of pain here."!"

The pain part was obvious but. Shirra translated quickly and correctly at once. and good dDoctor Opal who was mid turn to figure out who was doing the talking tried to sit down when he could not escape the conclusion, missed his chair and ungainly hit the floor. "Wha… how…"

Ilse beamed at him, "Told you so!"

Greg looked from the one to the other, Ilse's eye's and Opal's spoke volumes. He felt as if he had to duck, for the big-L love hearts that floated back and forth!

Doctor Opal still sat on the floor, coming to his senses while listened to the noise filtering in through the door and the breathing agoing on. Then, he and looked at Greg apologetically, nodding, "I… I see what you mean."

Because Vivian's moansed took away the magic of the the pain, Opal got up and he investigated Vivian's head and the wound on it. He hummed off-key, disliking what he saw and looked around with a slight frown. After a short search through some drawers, he continued his investigation with a loupe and spoke slowly. "We would need to make an X-ray of this, but, as you will appreciate, I rather can't."

Shirra frowned dangerously and bent over to Greg, speaking softly. "I don't understand this too well. What's an X-ray? Are we talking some sort of radiated tissue imaging? Why can't he do that?"

Greg couldn't hide his irritation but he recognized the rules here weren't his to break. "Not now Shirra, please,." he cut her short.

Shirra clamped Greg's arm, hard, and looked at him intently. Greg gave in, so he said loudly,. "He says he can't do that photo because you and Vivian are not human."

Opal looked at him, to Greg's astonishment relieved rather than appalled at being talked to in third person. "I'm glad you understand… Greg was it? Right now, I would say I can try to remove debris that is lodged in there with pincers. I just don't know a good tranquilizer."

Vivian pushed Opal's hands aside and got up, holding her head. She walked to a sturdy looking cabinet for support and said, in English this time, "I'm ready."

Then she banged her head full force on the cabinet and fell to the floor, comatose.

"Uh," Greg said, at the same time as Ilse and doctor Opal.

"You better hurry, doctor!" Shirra spurred him on, while she rushed to Vivian's side.

Greg was still holding the sleeping coyote puppy. She looked like a dog at least, and would not raise questions. Based on how the doctor talked to Vivian, he certainly expected less intelligence.

The 'doggies' in this world must be pretty stupid for the doctor to have acted that way. No matter what Opal felt about Vivian, he cared in a specifc way. It might be the link between him and Ilse even. Greg saw Shirra and the Doctor busy That aside, the man started pulling metal filaments from Vivian's head. He Opal cursed a few times but kept at it. A slightly longer wire-like piece appeared. Almost three centimeters long and thicker than a nail. Greg didn't like to think how that must have sat in there. Shirra was already next to him, pressing wounds closed and at the same time keeping fur away.

"Are you medically trained?" the doctor asked between grunts, clearly surprised at Shirra's support but slaving on.

"Sort of," Shirra evaded displeased and her eyes darted around the room, "Greg, ! I need some suture wire, pronto."!"

Opal worked on and directed Ilse to a drawer. Quickly the desired supplies appeared at Shirra's side who expertly cleansed the wounds, muttering "ay-ay" from time to time. Her ears flicked in a way that Greg recognized as agitated.

Opal stopped. "I can't see any more shrapnel, I'm afraid that you would have to come in with a large amount of cash to get any further. Of course, you might still go to a vet but they're not too happy about dog people either."

"Either?" Greg mouthed silently.

Shirra worked on and shook her head time and time again.

"What's wrong, Shirra?" the doctor asked while he cleaned his hands of blood and fur.

"The fragments went too deep. There is damage and some pressure. You must have seen the damage to the bone. I fear her skull is fractured."

"She should not have banged her head."

As always, Shirra amazed Greg with her control and demeanor. He knew how to read her expressions and he was sure the other humans couldn't. As it was she was livid but she remained civil.

"No. She should have gotten anesthetics. Simple ether would have been enough. I see a jar in that cabinet. Right _there_."

No one spoke and Shirra carefully felt around on Vivian's head. "She's young, it'll heal."

"Young?" the Doctor asked with wonder, "How old is she?"

"She's 18."

"Wow! I believe evidence suggests you really aren't dog people, then."

"No shit, Sherlock," Greg mumbled.

"Excuse me?" the doctor asked him, not deigning to leave the demeaning undertone out.

"I agreed with your statement, is all."

"Rrrright. Well, if you must know, I did notice Shirra's and Vivian's hands. Then their feet, they are even less normal, with those big nails. They couldn't wear shoes, with their raised heel. Highly unusual, I must admit, compared to the dog people who do have human hands and feet, with some fur of course."

"Of course," Greg agreed emptily.

"I'll see what I can do," Opal eventually offered, "but you must excuse me now. I cannot evade my responsibilities any longer".


	4. Chapter 4

4\. House

Greg, Amandine and Shirra were left with the comatose Vivian for a while. The adults each for them trying to figure out what this all meant and the little one feeling that something was amiss but she was close to daddy and that was good.

"Quite a pair, that Opal and that Ilse," Greg said.

"Hmm." Shirra grumbled, trying to improve the situation with the wound on Vivian's head.

"Lovers," Greg went on, eyeing Shirra.

"Yeah," Shirra agreed, "I nearly got overdosed on pheromones."

"Pheromones?"

Shirra stopped and looked at him intently. Then she frowned ever so slightly and said dryly, "yes, pheromones."

"Ah," Greg nodded sagely with large eyes.

Ilse quickly entered the room and closed the door behind her. She held a plastic bag she put on the floor and started to take items from it. "Opal is a saint, isn't he?" she asked, assuming no confirmation from Greg let alone from Shirra. "He did say he'd take of us and see! Also, we can use materials in here if we clean them."

True to his word, the doctor got them some drugs; aspirin and anti-inflammation ointment plus some bandaging. Shirra had been allowed to use a trimmer to clear the wound of fur.

They had dragged Vivian into the hospital via the side door, they left with her in much the same way, through the same door, to the car. Other than the occasional moan, Vivian was incapacitated. She was alive, that was about it.

Ilse brought them to a road with a large apartment block. Across the street was a smaller building with apartments. This was in bad shape and Greg noticed how, when Ilse got out, she scouted around with eagle eyes.

Then, quite in contrast to her body's anxiousness, she smiled at them. "This is your new home! Come in folks," she said happily, opening the door. Greg was sure she was convinced that they would be ecstatic. Inside the building it was damp and dark. Ilse went up two flights of stairs beckoning them on. Amandine found it all very interesting and enjoyed being carried. Ilse carried the backpack while Vivian walked lurched like a zombie after them, supported by Shirra.

Before a dark red painted door in a narrow corridor with a filthy, stained, green carpet Ilse stuck the key in the lock. The door carried a cheap plastic number nine on it which had once looked like gold and now was mostly white. The wipes that must've had taken the gold off were an artifact of suggested cleaning to some extent, a hopeful sign.

Ilse was trying to open the door, muttering that it ought to be the right key and finally kicked the door. Since it didn't budge she ended up throwing her weight to it. It flew open and gave onto a small room with a few wooden chairs at a little table and a dark brown painted wooden floor. The floor had many stains and scratches that again hinted of cleaning attempts. Ilse walked in, turned around to face them and sought something in her wallet. Radiating joy and grandness she proffered two bills.

"Here is one hundred dollars from the US government. The rent is a mere twenty five dollars a week and the landlord lives in the same building."

Ilse put the backpack on the floor and waited, still grinning. Greg didn't know what to say, finally he offered, "Thank you."

Ilse beamed still, her wide smile supported with slightly uneven teeth. "So, that'll be all from me. I'll see you next week Friday, early in the morning, be home. Good luck with finding a job hunting and again, welcome to the United States of America."

She waved, handed Greg the key, waved and said "Bye!" and then walked out, past them, pulling the door closed behind her. Greg stood mute, looking at the key in his hand. Shirra helped Vivian sag onto a wooden chair at the grey-white Formica table on metal legs. The chair wobbled and she supported her head with two hands.

Before really getting his bearings, a rap on the door made Greg put Amandine down on the floor. Shirra, who was also similarly dumbstruck, came forward to hold her the little one close. With difficulty, Greg pulled the door open, meeting a fat and well-dressed man.

"I see you made it eh? Welcome, welcome, this is the most beautiful place on earth. Finest rooms anywhere! I' am your landlord, Vincent."

Then the man shook his hand, and Greg inspected it after the sticky sensation this incurred. The guy pushed past him and it sounded as if Mister Vincent's breath stuck in his throat. Greg felt how he was grabbed pulled and swirled dragged in front of the fat man who did so with apparent ease despite the soggy appearance.

"Four of you, eh? That'll be ten extra, boy! I collect every Friday. I know you got our good tax dollars, so pay up."

Greg produced the money and from his pocket the man gave filthy money bills for in change. Then the owner smiled widely and patted him on the back. Greg had to adjust his weight to keep from being bowled over. "Grand, my man, grand. I have some rules! We'll be best friends if you keep your mouth shut after six in the evening and during the day as well. No music, if you get a TV set you pay extra for the power drain of those damned things. Clear on that? Good. Further, if you clog the toilet I kick you out and will dredge every last piece of money off of your stinking corpse."

Vincent sniffed and made a face to the cats. He winked, producing a thumb between his fingers suggesting intercourse, then winkeding some more and noddeding with a deranged smile raising his brows several times to Greg just to make sure Greg understood he, Vincent, understood perfectly why Greg would have these 'dogs'. When he Vincent found Greg not responsive, he glared at him and spoke with a spray of spittle in his mounting anger.

"I don't like having those doggies under my roof, buster. Those rotten dogs you have here are not showering more than once per week… and I _will_ know, you hear?"

Greg nodded with a diligent smile, humoring the man. Vincent went from frothing to suave in the span of one second and gave him another chummy pat on the back.

"I never saw anyone with this many pets. You are mental, buddy. Take my advice, get a normal dog -I allow normal dogs, you know- and dish this lot. About the shower, it's down the hall and if you forget to get your hairs out the drain or theirs for that matter, out you go. For you I have ten others, capiche? Fine. I love new people, welcome to the You and eS of Aa."

The landlord turned his back, stomped out and drew the door closed.

Greg looked at Shirra in silence, and shrugged.

Shirra was appalled by their lodgings, he saw it in her stance and the frown appended with vibrating whiskers. Vivian was, for lack of a description, out of order. Greg walked to the next room. It was a tiny bedroom where an unmade bed stood, a stack of sheets sat on it with a little cardboard American flag atop it. He picked it up, on the back he read 'Dear refugee, welcome to the USA.'

"Welcome" Greg read aloud, without emotion.

He turned around to see Shirra stand there, forlorn. He grinned; it was laughable, wasn't it? Shirra smiled back. She shrugged and went to inspect the two cupboards in the kitchenette, which was part of the living room. With mounting fear, given the old state of all he saw here, Greg walked to the toilet, and found that against all odds, this was clean. Water dripped from the overhead basin into the toilet of which the glaze was cracked. He heard Shirra close a cupboard door behind him.

"I found Here's a bucket and cleaning materials. I think I will get some scrubbing going. Greg, can you buy some groceries? I guess potatoes and fresh vegetables would be fine; just see what you can get. We're low on money so mind the price please, Greg."

"I'm used to living cheap, Shirra. We'll see how far we get. I saw a grocery store down the road. I'll be back in half an hour."

The store was much further than he'd thought, and in the end he was gone for a whole hour. When he reentered, Vivian had been put to bed, and the apartment smelled much cleaner. The window was open, letting New York air in as well as a lot more light. He placed his paper bag with the potatoes and a cabbage on the table.

"I have the weird feeling fast-food is cheaper than this fresh stuff. I saw a burger for less than a dollar! This lot is already two and a half bucks. Oh, I also bought bread, but it's awful. And, I hope you all like peanut butter."

"Bucks?" Shirra asked, while she placed it all in the cupboard.

Greg shrugged. "A dollar is also called a buck. Don't ask me why."

Shirra sat down. Amandine was playing with her wooden puzzle toy that the bear Blackie had made her, on a rug that Greg didn't recognize. Shirra beckoned him to sit down as well. At the table, she placed her hands on his;

"You should have gotten some seasoning, anything. I can't do anything with this."

"I bought pepper and salt. Is that any good?"

Shirra smiled sadly. "With that money we won't last long will we? Do we have to do it this way?"

Greg missed the last part and explained, "I'll get a job, I'm sure I can do something. If at all possible, we'll live here in peace for a while. What say you?"

"I'm worried about Viv, she really has lost something. She's so scared of everything we've seen so far. Not even overwhelmed, Greg. It's more fundamental, and I know very well who she used to be. That head injury is costing her ability to think straight. She could not even get out of her clothes. She knew what to do but she just couldn't. You follow me?"

Greg frowned for a second. "No, you're not aren't making any sense. Is she all right or sick or what's the matter?"

"Sick in her head Greg! That piece of grenade in her brain, the damage she sustained. It's affecting her thinking, I fear something is broken."

"Temporary?"

"Can't say. And worse, since that butcher doctor has been at it, I'm sure the symptoms got more pronounced. The only thing she wanted to do was care for Amandine, some sort of deep down motherly impulse I think."

"I see," Greg said carefully. He regarded Amandine, who played with her toy still. The toy the lady bear had made for her… Greg thought back to the wooden house in the deep canyon in that other world. That had been a peaceful time. There Amandine could have thrived.

"Idiot" Greg thought privately. How would Amandine handle her new situation, it was his fault the little humanoid coyote was thrust into this human world. A place that didn't seem to be very accepting of her kind.

Greg pressed his lips together. So, Vivian was mothering over Amandine. He looked at Shirra, she was looked at him intently. It seemed as if Shirra didn't like 'mothering' too much.

". Am I to understand you do not feel such feelings?"

Shirra said nothing and looked outside. Her reaction was clear. Amandine meant something else to her than what she felt for Greg. He knew this was so. He could not force Shirra to love Amandine. In fact he could not force Shirra to 'unlove' him either, due to her former bosses.

Greg sighed. "I'm going to walk around, see if and how and where work is available."

"Good," she nodded, "I'm holding the fort, all two rooms of it."

###

Walking around had not turned up a lot. More accurately, it had yielded nothing but sore feet. The only business he had found was a sort of slaughter house but that was closed for the day. He saw people who looked at him in angry ways. Stares, he recognized from his childhood. He felt he did not belong. His dark skin made him stand out here as well. He walked for hours, until twilight fell, and had covered a few blocks. This city was so big, without a car he was getting absolutely nowhere. In the end he bought a newspaper and milk at the store which he passed on the way to his shoddy living quarters.

Inside he smelled the hot evening meal Shirra had prepared.

"This stove is a disaster, Greg. It uses these electrical hot plates and it's almost impossible to tune the heat. If I want to do anything more, I'll need some time to experiment. Also, there is no oven. I'm not complaining, though, I'm merely informing you."

"Merely," he seconded and sat down. The smell of the food didn't seem so bad to him.

Greg turned to his young charge, "How do you like it here Amandine?" he asked the toddler. She had been sitting quietly, now looked up at the distraction. Her keen eyes stayed with him for a little while.

"Food? Yum Yum?" she asked eventually.

Greg nodded and accepted her little outstretched paw in his hand. He put her on the only remaining chair, which was too low for her to reach over the table. As a solution he put her on his lap. Vivian was still sleeping, as they ate in silence. Amandine grabbed morsels from his plate, chewing with some smacking. Outside a siren wailed, blue and red lights flashed past on the road. Amandine looked up but kept chewing, her ears pointed right toward the window.

"What is that, Greg? Sounded like a siren." Shirra sounded unsure, given the situation he could expect her to be jumpy.

"I don't know this city but, _that_ was a police siren. This must be a super neighborhood."

Shirra studied him for a moment. "Is it, or isn't it?" she asked, for she had missed his intonation. Greg looked at her. She appeared haggard, tired, deadbeat. In fact, he also felt tired and Amandine was sluggish for sleep deprivation.

"We did not get much sleep of late. I say we turn in early."

"Amandine still needs to do her business, preferably on the toilet, and we can't all sleep in that bed."

"Amandine sleeps on that blanket on the floor," he offered, "I didn't know we had that blanket?"

"I found it in the linen closet."

Greg nodded. "You know, I think we'll leave the bedroom door open."

Shirra nodded too, "Indeed. I'll clean up."

Amandine curled up on the blanket in the corner while Shirra was cleaning the other corner the toddler had selected for shitting. That newspaper sure came in handy! Greg sat next to Amandine, stroking her back. The little coyote smiled in contentment. Finally, they each took a side next to Vivian who was breathing heavily and did not seem to react to any stimulus. Despite the strange surroundings, the weird smell and sounds, Greg drifted off before he knew what hit him.

…

They were running to the bunker, chased by gunships that were dropping bombs and nearing with a speed that made it impossible to reach the door. The door was open, beckoning, a black hole in the hell of explosions that rocked him, rocked Amandine in his arms, threw Shirra's dress about like it was possessed. Vivian's wail was no more than an undertone in this mayhem.

The door.

Just as they made it through and only when it slid closed did he hear anything at all, anything else but the constant drumming and vibrations of the explosions. It was madness to use the setup this way, one couldn't expect it to be aligned for long enough but they had no choice! Grit and dirt from the ceiling drifted onto them, testimony to the fact that as yet the bombs hadn't hit the bunker.

Perhaps they had, and just weren't strong enough?

There was no time to dwell on that. The setup had to be prepared and they had to make an escape. Bombs falling, on the bunker, the structure that was protecting them and those below…

Families, little ones, old ones, incapable of defending themselves. Who could defend against a ceiling that dropped on them? And if it held… If! Then they would be captured and probably tortured one at a time by those horse-people. Why had he stepped forward? Why had he even suggested to the inhabitants of Campone that he, Greg, could … help them.

All those lives, lost, because he was quitting on them; leaving them to fend for themselves.

He could hear the screams.

"AAAAH"

Loud screams of pain and injustice. Screams!

"AAAAH"

The weird thing was, it even sounded like Amandine.

The whining noise grew louder.

His head was pounding, while bits and pieces of info tried connecting. Groggily Greg sat up, holding his head. "Ooooh," he moaned and started to make his way around the bed. He hit his head against the side of the wardrobe and continued cursing to the open door, massaging his head. Shirra had the decency to wake up too, yawning widely. In this state, Greg wasn't sure how he would have reacted had she not woken.

Another scream erupted from the other room.

"AAAAH" – whine, whine.

This Amandine' cry was accompanied by a rhythmic 'thump', 'thump' from below, like someone hitting the ceiling in an attempt to state their point of view. No doubt the sign of an unforgiving person downstairs. Greg ambled into the main room when another sound distracted him. 'Bang'; someone banged on their door and called "hey!", a man, by the sound of it.

"Shut that God damn dog up or I swear I'll put it down for you, right NOW!"

Amandine had crawled off her little nest, and lie groping for any support on the floor. Her actions scratched the damaged floor even more.

"Shut the fuck up!" he heard muffled from below.

"You shut up!" the person in the hall screamed loudly, so supposedly the other source of profanities.

Greg decided to get the door, stumbled almost and cursing opened the door.

"What!" he yelled, "Do you want?"

A blond man stood in the doorframe, and for some reason Greg noticed a toddler with equally blond hair hiding at his leg. The door across from them was ajar, light streaming into the dimly lit corridor like an ominous beacon. Greg saw a flash of an ugly woman glowering at him, through the slit. Her hair was wrapped in a sort of thin towel and she was hidden from view by a red and blue flower print robe.

The blonde guy snarled at him, "Who the _fuck_ are you?"

Greg's senses were sharpened by the ungainly vision he had just witnessed through the door-slit and it was clear as day the guy in front of him was better not ruffled any further. Diplomacy would not help much either. So, setting aside his exhaustion, his throbbing head, the whining of Amandine that tugged at his mind, Greg made an effort.

"I'm sorry, sir. She had a nightmare, you know how little kids are?"

Interestingly, this answer had the guy completely at a disadvantage. "Kids?" he sought words, "Uhh, yes, but, uhh, that's not a human, and…"

"True," Greg picked her up and she calmed at once, "this is Amandine. , Ccan you say hello to the gentleman, Amandine?" Greg knew that when something, someone, had a name it made all the difference. Names always were fine tools for the mind. Put a name in, it worked wonders. In this case, the blond man was sidetracked even more by his son. From below the waist, Greg heard, "That is a nice name, daddy."

Presto! The little kid even got it!

To his wonder, Amandine put a shaky waving paw up and then quickly buried her snout in his armpit. Next, he kneeled to show the toddlers to each other. The kid looked at his little coyote and smiled. The blonde father got down on his knees too.

A hand was extended. "Hi, I'm Jeff. Sorry for that racket just now."

"Don't worry about it. Since I'm new here, I'm going to have to try to fit in. Maybe you can teach me the ropes? I'm Greg, by the way, Greg de Beers."

"Geoffry Barnes, pleased to meet you."

Greg accepted the hand with his left since he was holding Amandine with his right. At that moment he heard a thundering set of steps and the landlord appeared. He was reaching them with a few strides.

"You!" the man pointed at Greg, "are _history_ my man! You and that ugly set of dogs are out of here tomorrow!"

The blond guy got up and 'tut-tut'-ted to the landlord. " _Can_ it, Vince! Give the man a break will you?"

Greg caught the tide and went along, "I'm sorry Vincent! My little one had a nightmare. It is only understandable seeing as we just escaped a war." He realized it would be best to go along with the local customs, next. "One of my _dogs_ has shards of a grenade wedged in her skull."

Jeff beamed at Vince. "Hear that, Vince? The man escapes a _war_ , tries to find a new place in this world and _you_ are the finest this country has to offer?"

Vince wasn't appeased yet. "Jeff buddy, maybe this is one of those damned commies you're sucking up to." Vince nodded his head to Greg, in case anyone misunderstood. "Just thought you might want to know."

"Commie?" Greg laughed softly, "Those idiots won't last long, Vincent. Don't you worry."

Jeff patted Greg on the shoulder and stood to face Vincent.

"See Vince? This is the right sort. So what if he has some dogs? There are few of them and they're dwindling. Read the papers, man!"

Vincent nodded, clearly unconvinced. However, he slunk off, down the stairs, while mumbling something about "…stupid dogs … kick them to the doghouse in the Bronx."

Jeff and Greg watched Vince disappear in gloom. "He," Jeff pointed a thumb, "dislikes those 'dumb-snout-faced-idiots'. All I'm saying is not all of them are stupid, Greg."

Greg nodded, "Again, sorry for the disturbance and good night to you and your family, JeffGeoffrey. Sleep tight."

Jeff clapped his shoulder, "Everybody calls me Jeff."

"Jeff, sure!" Greg agreed with a nod and stepped back inside. Then he

Greg closed the door and found Shirra right next to it. She'd listened to the whole conversation.

"Do you have any idea," he began under his breath, and noted how she frowned at that, "how… _smart_ it was of you not to show yourself?"

Now she smiled and gave him a hug, whispering, "I'm supposed to be smart, remember?"

Amandine was already nodding off and he placed her back on her blanket. Then Greg yawned and returned the hug he had received from Shirra. It felt good, no matter she smelled of war. Greg closed his eyes and whispered back, "I like you so much, Shirra, so much, that I _love_ you. Deeply."

He kissed her on her lips, quick enough to keep from getting her over‑active and rough tongue in his mouth. They went back to the bed and in a moment they both found their place in the bed again, this time next to each other, since Vivian had moved to one side. Three was too much for the bed, but at least it was warm this way.

"Goodnight, Shirra."

"Goodnight, Greg, until my dreams."

Greg settled in, thinking his life could be worse. While he drifted off, a rhythmic thumping began above them. This was another type of rhythm. "For the love of the prophet…" Shirra whimpered.

"Hur-ray" Greg spelled slowly.

Once the noise had subsided, which luckily didn't take too long, the night finally swallowed them.


	5. Chapter 5

5\. Job

Something was recalling Shirra from her deep dreamless sleep of exhaustion. It was music of some sort. Sound swelled louder and accompanying lyrics rolled through the room, a woman singing "...Winner Takes it Aaallll…" and then, just as quickly as it had risen, the sound volume was lowered just as quickly again.

Shirra shot awake. She looked around, the dismal room, the bad smell and the unsuitable bed assaulted her senses. She sniffed again and realized her nose wasn't even operating at full strength yet. Greg would not smell any of this as well as she did. He was a human, and a male. Well, right now he was lucky! That smell… it was unmistakably urine… Vivian? Shirra felt herself quickly just in case her body was betraying her, but no. It was not her. It was Vivian, for sure.

Again the sound rose up, "The Winner Takes…" and then it was lowered again. It sounded like a song, and the music might have been pleasant if it weren't for the mess she was facing.

Greg stirred and sat up and went about, checking his watch right away with a lot of blinking and frowning. Sometimes Shirra wondered if it was like a sort of talisman to the man, or perhaps a demi-god. Did Greg mean everything in the universe was explained by time?

"Stupid kid from the neighbors," Greg explained the music, adding, "Damn… ABBA, that just figures, doesn't it?"

"Abba?" Shirra asked, getting out of the bed and beginning a check to see what was up with Vivian.

"Seven o'clock!" Greg spat groggily, shaking his head and ignoring her question.

Shirra had surveyed the damage and a silent 'oh' formed. She felt her hands touching her face. "Oh no! Vivian!"

Vivian had wet herself, none too gentle either and so it included the bed and Greg's pants. Shirra followed the extent of the stain. It had almost reached her! As if it had been stopped by… she checked her dress and quickly unzipped it.

Her dark red dress, soiled by urine!

What could be the matter with Vivian, for her to lose bladder control like this? That thing with her head… it surely could not be that bad?

Shirra got angry with herself for a moment realizing she should not have accepted that well-meaning human doctor! It was partly her fault, humans should not be expected to treat cats, it was only normal. For a fleeting moment Shirra wondered why the human doctor had used such backward methods, clearly the man would not go about humans in that manner! But there was no time to dwell on that, now. She looked at Greg, how would he cope with this? For now at least, Greg seemed oblivious to the smell.

"Greg? Vivian has a severe problem. She has wet the bed. Including your clothes it seems."

Greg sniffed the air and looked at his trousers, which were wet with urine. The mattress was ruined.

"Oh, bummer," Greg said with a shrug and relaxed, got out of bed. Shirra admired Greg for it. To get peed all over and to keep your calm! Well, no matter how many humans this world held, Greg was special. To her, to this world, to the universe! And he loved her! How much more could she get?

Sheirra realized the lodgings they had been put into would be a temporary thing. She'd slept without dreams, recharging her body and now she could make more of the flashes she recalled of yesterday. So, they were in the 'United States of America' now. That was something she recognized. First of all, she recalled it from the history books of her home. Secondly, during their time in that parallel world where they'd been locked in the military base, they'd been in a similar place. There had been a lot of references to the United States there too. In that particular world the United States had seemed a power of relevance although Shirra's teaching told her to weigh such things accordingly if one was looking out into the world from within the stronghold. Such a vantage point tended to give a slightly skewed view of the outside world.

Compared to this place however… thinking back to the overwhelming trip through the streets and seeing so many humans! They were everywhere she'd looked, all colors and sizes and ages and states of health. Not at all like the 'blanches' of her home. These were Greg's people, and in her heart she knew these were the times referred to by history as 'the golden age'. The times before the first nuclear war, the time of the height of the east-west conflict when the US was a super-power. Greg had once told her about time-effects and the parallel worlds but that it could span three hundred years was beyond her.

The US as a super power, what would that be like? They would no doubt be thrilled to find Greg in their midst! No matter there were so many humans. So many… the size of this citadel was unlike anything she had ever imagined. Imagine then, what would happen once Greg announced his heritage! They were sure to receive a more fitting accommodation. It wasn't nice to be cooped up like this, but it was clean, now.

Ruefully, Shirra accepted Greg would have his reasons for keeping a low profile. Even if that meant that for now, they had to endure. Well, she would support him! Come what might!

"You think she's degenerating into something, Shirra?" His question recalled her from her reverie.

Shirra shook her head. "I think, given the type and location of the injury, her motoric system is hit, and somehow it affects her bladder. I'm going to wake her up now and you may have to support her. She's not going to like this, I can tell you."

"A bit of piss?" Greg asked, and walked out, probably to check on the little coyote. Shirra padded over to Vivian. The young cat had been drooling and everything about her said she wasn't well, not by a long shot.

"Vivian?" Shirra nudged her maid-in-training, increasing the action until the blue eyed wonder cat shifted, emitting a drowsy 'uh?'

Shirra helped Vivian to a sitting position and then Vivian breathed in, deeply. One sizeable whiff of the environment sunk the gravity of the situation into that young white furred head. The ears gave a twist of discomfort and Vivian's hand went to her eye, to steady her head.

"Wha… What's that smell?"

"I'm afraid it's exactly what it smells like."

"But… that is my…"

Shirra held Vivian at arm's length, going to her knees to look the young cat in the eye, "I take it you will understand I'm not going to hug you right now?"

"…no, aw this is…" Vivian didn't make much more sense than that. As if the previous sentence had sapped her linguistic skills.

Shirra took a step back and let Vivian take the view in: the bed and sheets stained and her own yellowed fur.

"I… it's ..., dis…, dis…, Shirra? Help?"

"It's a disgrace, Vivian."

Vivian nodded. Hher eyes were large with fright at finding simple words were eluding her. Finally she muttered, "Digressed!" then she added, "stupid cat."

Vivian looked up at Shirra, "Finish me?"

Shirra shook her head resolutely. "I will not put you down unless Master Greg feels it necessary. You know he has the heart to care for you."

The front door slammed and soon enough Greg entered. "I have just spoken to our neighbor, blonde Jeff. Turns out he works at a slaughterhouse and says I have a chance to work there. He'll vouch for me so, girls, with a little luck I will be with a job before the end of the day!"

Greg smiled and took an accomplished stance.

Shirra looked at her sire. The guy looked horrible, hardly presentable with his wrinkled clothes full of war-stains and… oh, so smelly! The urine could be washed out at least a little with water in the kitchen sink. But didn't Greg have _any_ decorum? Why did he go and meet their neighbor looking like that?

"Greg!" she cautioned, unable to keep the stern tone out, "If you can talk this man, this neighbor, into waiting for you, then please shower quickly and I will try to get the smell off your pants. No assurances, mind you, but I will try."

Greg's eyes grew large with mist, "Why?"

"You need to be presentable!"

"Djeez, Shirra!" Greg spread his arms, "You sound like my mother."

Shirra was adamant though, "Maybe your mother and I have a thing in common then, we both care about you."

"Wow, that is… I hadn't even thought… my goodness. OK, I don't see how it can harm."

Greg went out to ask for a delay and a few minutes later Shirra was working on the pants. Of course, the humans would likely not smell as much of this but what if Greg would meet any other wild cats or dogs? That would not be pretty.

Wringing, she sniffed the trouser leg and let out a loud "Phoa!" for it was still pretty laden with a strong musk. When Greg appeared from the shower down the hall, toweling himself off and getting into the clean-most combination of clothes available, Shirra accepted the level of rinsing she'd been able to put in and offered the trousers. Greg pulled his wallet from the table and gave the change of the hundred remaining dollars to her, pocketing a fiver.

"Here Shirra, take this and go to a launderette to clean our sheets and anything else you consider laundry. On the far corner," he pointed to the wall, "you will find a bus stop, take it five stops and find the launderette. It's all signposted, I'm sure you can handle it."

Greg looked at her for a moment.

"OK?"

"Launderette?" she asked.

"It's called 'Launder Land', can't miss it. Has a bunch of washers and dryers."

"Ah!" Shirra nodded, beginning to understand. She walked over, stole a kiss, trying for a smooch but Greg was again quick enough to evade that. It had become a sort of game, she knew, it was fun to play. "Good luck, Greg."

"You too, Shirra, with the laundry. Keep in mind you are considered some sort of dog and, well… you know… I have to fly! Bye."

He walked out, hurried by their neighbor shouting "I'm leaving right now, Greg!" from the stairwell. Marvelous, for Greg to find his own in this world so easily! It must be a sign of his outstanding ability as a human, she reasoned. Shirra shook her head in bewilderment, thinking about her task. "Tall order, but I'm flexible!" she reasoneddecided, not understanding the '…you know…'-bit at all. Was there something so obvious about that? Also, she'd never heard someone say they had to fly.

A slight moan demanded her attention. The little coyote was drowsily turning to her back on her little sleeping mat. Since that looked peaceful, Shirra went into the bedroom where Vivian sat in her filth and appearing detached.

"Pull yourself together, Vivian! There is work to be done. At the very least, you will need to clean up. I have been charged with the cleaning."

Vivian turned to her, her eyes seemed vacant. "I'm a sh…" Vivian frowned and slowly spoke, willing the syllables out, "shambles. Nothing works as it should."

"That is nonsense, Vivian. You're speaking English again so I can only assume damage is temporary."

Vivian shook her head and winced. "Shirra, my head is broken. I'm better off dead."

"I will _not_ have that! The prophet damns those who think so! Out, up! You are here still, and you will live up to the task set for us. The task I set you."

Vivian hung her head. "I don't want to think anymore. I can't even think straight."

"You will get out of that bed now, or I will kick you straight!"

Vivian obeyed slowly. Shirra grabbed her wrist and pulled her along. "Your smell conjures up the death, Vivian. It is appalling and you will take a shower now! Unbecoming of a maid-to-be."

"But I'm… n… naked?" It was not a stutter, it was simply a search inside the brain.

"That is hardly a problem, there're only humans here. Move, down the hall and be quick about it."

"Lady Shirra, I don't want to…"

"Now, ! Oor there will be consequences, is that clear? Don't let this environment fool you, Vivian!" Shirra hissed. "I'm still in command here. I know Master Greg allows leeway like you would not believe, but _I_ don't."

This, finally, got her trainee in orderline, and Vivian raised her head to face the challenge of taking a shower. Shirra made a mental note to talk this over with Greg, maybe he could come up with options. For example, that urinating issue in the bed would not be something to repeat!

Shirra cleaned took the sheets off and found the mattress was covered in some sort of plastic. "Well, well," she mumbled understanding the stains better now.

Next up was her own attire, as she was walking around in her underwear. Luckily, she had thought to take a pair of pants! In the wardrobe in the bedroom, she found her tight pants and the shirt. They were thin material and figure hugging. Guiding her tail through the hole, Shirra pulled them up over her derriere. The mirror in the bedroom, with the poor light there, was merciless. Shirra saw her behind and decided it wasn't what she would have liked. She used to work out regularly but now it was a tight fit.

Shirra's big sister was endowed with… She stopped the thought, realizing she didn't have a big sister anymore. Not here and not 'back home'. An unpleasant dark feeling rose up spread through her but there was no time for that! Resolutely she said "used to!", thinking of her sister. She Her sister had had one of those magical bodies that simply burned all fat. Not so with her, without attention her thighs would swell. It could at the very least be called a genetic mishap, if not a thorough failure. Even now her bra was only just containing her breasts. Would she be able to replace them here, should the need arise? Anyway, the clean underpants felt like a huge improvement and she took up the next task: collect the smelly sheets and other laundry.

The dark feeling slowly evaporated while she went through the backpack. It was filled to the brim and moving about was work.

"Knock!"

Shirra looked to the door. Vivian! Opening, she let the maid step in, who was still dripping a bit from her tail.

"You call that drying?" Shirra chided, "Give me that. Stand still…"

In a moment, she had achieved a much better grade of dryness.

"Good. Now you are charged with looking overbabysitting the little coyote. Master Greg will be very cross if anything happens to her, you know that."

Vivian nodded eyes downcast. "I will look after her very well, lady Shirra!"

"Good, that' is the spirit." Shirra quickly went over the dressing options. There was no backup clothing for Vivian who had joined their escape at the last 'd came come along in the spur of the moment. "Vivian, take my black dress, it's clean and will fit you. Be vigilant for your bladder, Vivian!"

"Yes Ma'am!" Vivian sounded upbeat about being allowed the black dress of her mistress, so she'd appear a true maid in charge of her own household!

"I'm off to find the launderette Launder Land, whatever it is, and will use a bus. This I assume to be public transport which will be much like the metro in the former citadel. Wish me luck."

At the door, Shirra held up the key. "I'm taking the one spare key, so you cannot leave the house."

Vivian smiled. "Good luck lady!"

Shirra waved to Vivian and closed the door behind her. A deep breath brought many unpleasant and sweaty smells to her nose. Ordering Vivian to go and walk naked to the shower was not something she would not ever have thought to be capable of. Shirra She was pleased with the presence she had mustered, given the situation.

Well then, off to the Laundry level oneit is! Holding her head high, the dark hallway was imprinting on her the dark situation of their finances and living conditions. Setting her mind, she walked down the hall, down the stairs.


	6. Chapter 6

6\. Laundry

Shirra reached the bottom of the narrow stairs that brought her down from the apartment. On her back rested the backpack with dirty laundry.

It was quiet here.

At the front door she hesitated. Feeling for the key in her pocket to make sure she wasn't locking herself out, she turned the knob and pushed.

The sounds and smells of the city enveloped her. In a reflex her ears went flat out.

Silly!

With a few strides the sidewalk was reached. Shirra took a moment to look at it, the structure of it.

It was poured concrete as far as the eye reached, just like the citadel! Shirra looked left and right, a street with some trees and around the high buildings across were some patches of grass. Cars were parked here and there at the curb.

So many cars! She recalled the cars that had filled the parking lot at the military base she and Greg had lived for a short while. That had been a lot of cars too, but somehow, here cars seemed to fill up the sides of the road as far as the eye could see.

And this was just one street!

Shirra thought back to that base and she gulped.

An unpleasant memory surfaced, she recalled losing her unborn baby. Her hands curled of their own accord, slowly, to balls. A frown crept in her face, she felt the anger at the world.

"Shirra!" she admonished herself with a hiss.

She forced her frame straight, proud, head up, shoulders square and ready to take on another task. What could this laundry do to her, well?

Above her, the sky was grey. She couldn't recall that ominous a sky ever. Her home in California wasn't ever seeing this. At the bottom of the cleft in the city of Campone they usually saw blue skies. And there the temperatures had been higher too, she realized, as a gust of cold wind tugged at her thin shirt and pants. A shiver ran up her spine.

The sound of playing kids echoed between the high rise buildings but she didn't see them. A car pulled out of its spot and tore down the street in a puff of noxious smoke. The woman driving the thing didn't seem to see much, she wore very strongly magnifying glasses.

That was weird, Shirra thought, for all their frailness the blanches never needed glasses! Humans were supposed to be fitter than that.

"No time to waste," Shirra said aloud. To the bus-stop, then! With a brisk walk, trying to ignore the straps of the backpack cutting into her shoulders, she stepped forward.

A little onward, she spotted the playing children and they spotted her too. The human children ran across the street, abandoning their game. They stared at her. One pointed and called in a singsong manner, "Dumb dog! Dumb dog!"

Shirra returned a friendly smile, which was easy since somehow these white children reached parts of her being that filed them under 'lovely' and 'friendly' or even 'adorable'. One of the children rushed to her in an unexpectedly speedy manner and pulled her tail. She might have swatted the kid aside but she couldn't. So she wouldn't, but gave a retort anyway.

"Hey!" she hissed, before she could stop herself.

The kid let go at once and looked at his friend accusingly.

"You said doggers don't talk!"

"I didn't! I _said_ they don't talk _well_."

"Liar!"

"You're dumb and deaf!" The other ran off, "Even dogmen outsmart you. Ha!" laughing about his taunt.

"Come here you liar!"

The tail-puller ran after his friend to catch him. Shirra decided this was a perfect moment to walk on. By the time she reached the crossing Greg had indicated, the sidewalk was countingheld a few more people. They all circumvented her, almost as if she were a leper or perhaps invisible. She wasn't sure what was worse.

With a sigh she surveyed the busy street, locating the bus stop. At the crossing she noted people waiting and she read the red text. 'Don't Walk'. Well, that was pretty clear. After crossing, she looked in the direction Greg had said to go and saw it was a very long street indeed. How far would five bus stops be? This city was so big, it defied all she knew.

Supposedly such cities had existed in her world once, with many humans too.

But this much?

 _Everywhere_ she looked there were humans! Short, long, thick, fat, male, female. Females in trousers, like her, or in skirts. Short skirts mostly. Men seemed to wear jeans mostly. No hats, as far as she could see. Studying the humans around her, she reached the bus stop.

On a sign was marked the text 'bus stop', so that was easy enough. On the pole was affixed a time table. What time would it be?

She looked around but nothing she could see held the time.

To the next passer-by she said, "Excuse me, good sir, do you know the time, perhaps?"

The man, a white human with a dark suit looked at her, frowning with a slightly befuddled look. Then he slowly read aloud the time from his watch, it had no hands but a grayish screen instead. Shirra smiled friendly and nodded, knowing now it was 'ten fifteen'.

The man stared at her still, not understanding something.

Shirra decided to use her good fortune and asked, "I would take the bus to a launderette. Five bus stops ahead, I have been given to understand. Might you offer me some advice on this endeavor?"

The man's eyebrows rose and with a blank face full of surprise he mumbled, "I'm hearing figments." The man tapped his head and looked around to see if he was the only one hearing this. A few more people looked in her direction. They all gave her uncomfortable stares. Shirra got the feeling of being some sort of interesting show, but more a freak show than an exhibit.

The man, aware of the crowd's attention, said much louder, "You just asked me for advice riding the bus, doggie?"

Inadvertently squirming under the negative attention, Shirra retained her presene though. "If you'll pardon me for encroaching on your time soit is not taking your time, please, yes?"

"What is the world coming to, if doggies start talking straight. Say, you always been this way?"

"Indeed sir. Now, about that bus, I would…"

The man clearly felt uncomfortable and was pulling his jacket, fidgeting with it. He looked around for support.

"Hey folks!" the man called out, gesturing wildly with his hands, intimidating Shirra, "This here is a _straight_ _talking_ doggie. I mean, whoa! Really?"

A woman elbowed to the front of the slowly growing crowd. She looked horrible and was really substandard dressed in a colorful dress with a vest and knitted cap. It was handwork but not too well done and looked as if it was supposed to look haphazard. Her moves indicated her of a limited social control and clumsy to boot. Nevertheless, and Shirra was quite sensitive to this by now, the weird woman did not look at her as if she were on display, like everybody else did!

"Don't listen to _that_ ," accompanied by a stabbing finger, "man, dog miss! He can't handle a dog person clearly!" this was followed by a few cries that sounded like "Ha!" but had a hysterical edge to them.

Whatever it was supposed to do, for sure the crowd disbanded after that. The woman pointed her finger at anyone who dared look at her and she stabbed it in the air. The humans seemed to be intimidated by that show.

Shirra didn't understand the first thing about what was going here. The woman was clearly being very rude. Why anyone would treat anyone like that was hard to understand. Factoring in the obvious social class difference, the behavior was nothing short of underdeveloped. Why this woman would have decided to behave like this was beyond Shirra.

The puzzling thing was, though, that evidence bore that this was done on her account. Shirra suppressed an urge to excuse herself to the well clad man. The verbal attack had made the man decide to resume his original course, he moved on swiftly.

Now the disconcerting woman turned to Shirra, making sorts of bows and all smiles. "Dog lady, it is brave of you to be willing to take the bus!"

Shirra was in a quandary, working through a flight or fight response. Thus, she was mute as she battled the stress hormones and tension building in her frame.

The rag-dressed woman frowned at her, "You follow me, little one?"

That last part was so humiliating Shirra would have placed a fist into that concerned face with a lot of love and satisfaction. But she would not strike a human, and certainly not a white one. A white woman… the pinnacle of human nature. Before her here, but so… so… _wrong_!

Shirra drew herself up. "I follow you perfectly, madam," she returned haughty. She shouldn't be haughty to a human! The conflict raged in her brain. What was going on here? Humans were the crown of creation, the pinnacle, much more developed than any Blanche ever could have been but why did they look like this? The word 'savages' boiled up in one part of her mind and immediately she rebutted the notion. She shouldn't think it, the mere notion couldn't be thought! Not!

Blocking the thoughtIt was impossible, like trying to think _not_ of a big white bear.

The woman's eyes glowed with delight at her words. Shirra wondered if her words perhaps didn't come across? Had she spoken in the common language of her world? No! It was English, she was sure. She'd been real unpleasant with her words, to this white human woman who was trying to help her even. And still the woman was exuding happiness.

"Wonderful!" the woman said, "You really _are_ something! You are a female, right?"

Shirra's eyes grew large with wonder. Wonder what part of her appearance was limiting the ability of this human to ascertain her gender. Shirra's head was crowned in a heap of long, thick, white hair which was not a dead giveaway. Maybe her breasts weren't big, but they certainly were _visible_ with this tight shirt! Finally, one would expect her lithe build and narrow waist, combined with the missing dick were hardly to be misconstrued. What could be causing this sort of questions? Still, she decided for a neutral answer.

"Of course. Will you help me with the public transport?"

"Certainly, madam."

The woman kept throwing Shirra's mind off track with her ways. Then again, the reactions of most humans in this world were way off. Getting some control finally, Shirra decided to enter this discussion more neutral.

"I'm lady Shirra, if you don't object to using names."

"Shirra? Hmm. Shirra, what a nice name, I'm Goswies."

Shirra tried the name a few times in her mind. "How nice, Goswies. Now about that transport."

Shirra realized she talked to the woman as an equal. This was too wrong but in the light of everything she'd experienced today also right. In an attempt to clear her head she flipped her ears and shook her head to clear it.

In vain. The self-questioning kept going, while she tried to talk to this woman, her head constantly echoed with reprimands regarding her choice of words.

"Of course!" Goswies bubbled happily, "I will be your keeper for this trip."

"My keeper?" Shirra blurted, showing her indignation was beginning to take over from her 'mind your place' feeling.

A sad look appeared on the tanned face. "Oh, yes." Goswies nodded, "you wouldn't know, would you? Female and all."

Shirra's agitation ran through her veins but twenty six years of Blanche training and human-adoring genes stayed anything from laying a finger on this human.

"Well," Goswies went on, wringing her hands in a crony way, "you see you are not allowed on unless traveling with a keeper. I will act that part. It is a scandal for the city to request that."

Trying to catch up, Shirra again only repeated, "Not allowed?"

A vigorous nodding. "But I think you must try! I support you, Shirra dog, you will see. Come on Shirra, there comes the bus now. Go Shirra go!"

A hand with dirty nails shot out from under a fold of colorful knitted wool and grabbed her arm like a lock. Fur was yanked and Shirra's arm turned in weird ways to keep the hairs on her arm.

Goswies kept repeating her name, "Shirra", every now and then like a mantra. This woman was really not entirely well in her head. Not as bad as Vivian obviously, but not right all the same.

Another yank to her arm.

"Not right for sure!" Shirra thought while gritting her teeth against the rough treatment. She was a maid, the top of her sort, and much more respect was due from any Blanche. This was a real, white human female, would she be different? Shirra knew from her late sister how the only white woman to walk her own world was very nasty.

Perhaps white human females shared the nasty trait?

The bus roared to life at the traffic lights and turned to them, parking neatly at the sidewalk with a slight squeak. The door opened with a bang and people filed in, hoping to get a ringside seat for the show.

Once all were in, Shirra and Goswies stood there.

"Come on lady! Haven't got all day!" the driver called out. This was a black man, broad and muscular like the black humans Shirra knew. Also, the man was driving a bus and that all filed under 'normal'.

In the bus, many people stood, craning their necks. Shirra found she was the performer in her own undesired stage play. Goswies pushed her forward and she stood facing the driver, who was wearing a uniform of sorts.

"Well?" the driver asked, looking around her to Goswies.

Goswies yanked her arm again and Shirra said, "I would like to travel for five stops on your bus, sir."

"Come again?" the driver said to Goswies who was cackling with a deviously low-key laughter.

Yank. Ouch! "I would like to travel for five stops on your bus, sir."

"Say what?" The driver now looked at her.

"I would like to travel for five stops on your bus, sir. Please?"

The driver turned to the faces that leaned from their seats. Then he turned back to her. He pulled the fur on her arm, and she gave a short 'ow' at that. "That hurts!" Shirra said.

"OK!" the driver laughed, looking around, "Where is it? Where is the camera?"

"I have no knowledge of this camera you speak of, but I would really like to be carried for five stops on your bus. I need to find a launderette."

The driver looked at her in earnest then laughed loudly. It was genuine and merry.

"I'm in a good mood, doggie, you can come along. Just don't shed any of that hair, OK? You're a bitch, aren't you?"

"If you are referring to my gender, I will accept that term as a correct indication although I would prefer 'female' however I understand that the circumstances do not warrant such requests."

The driver laughed much louder. Some passengers started smirking. The joke was lost on Shirra. But all of it seemed good natured, and she smiled.

"Female ones can apparently talk?" someone watching said.

"They're supposed to be real dumb, what did it say?"

"Shut up I can't hear!"

"Did it speak?"

"You should shut up yourself!"

"Can you move aside, I can't see?"

"Hey, who's hand is that?"

"Don't push!"

"Hey!"

"Hey you!"

"You? No, not you!"

The driver shook his head. "Female dog folks on the bus. It's getting more absurd every day. Move on, doggie, you're welcome today."

The man laughed still, "No shit! A talking doggie. Times are a changing they say, well darn me it's true, no shit!"

Shirra walked on a few steps but stopped, facing the crowd. She let her backpack down. Her shoulders were protesting from the strain and her arm felt mangled from the woman's yanking. Goswies paid and came to stand next to her. She smelled very unpleasant. It clearly had all not gone down as she'd expected, that was clear on the disappointed face of the woman.

Shirra felt cornered but she had a goal: the laundry. This woman was clearly doing something that inadvertently helped Shirra along. Given all the other people's reaction she had no choice but to appease the Goswies woman.

The bus drove on, stopped two times and at the third time, no one exited and no passengers were waiting to get on. The driver turned to her, yelling, 'yo doggie! Fifth stop, your exit. Launderette further up the street!"

Shirra waved and left, Goswies followed, as expected. The doors closed with a clang and the bus roared, driving off. Further up the street the bus turned and disappeared from view. Shirra shouldered the backpack and started walking.

"It's not far," Goswies said, uninvited, "You are the gem, Shirra! Shirra Dog the talker. I know something about dog men, hi ha! All their parts, ha!" Goswies cackled again. "You catch my drift?"

Shirra was smart enough to nod for good measure, having no idea what the woman was going on about.

"Dog people are not fluent in speech, ever. Their throat cannot support it. Where do you come from? Look at those clawy nails, yes claw not finger. And then your feet, not even looking human."

Goswies yanked Shirra's arm again, arresting her. "What are you? From here? Where you from?" Goswies said with a wide smile that did not match with the eyes. Shirra saw a neat row of white teeth with pieces of green stuck to them here and there.

"I'm from California," she said at length.

"Really? I can tell from the accent. Where from? I'm from San Francisco."

"I'm from the Citadel."

"Where is that?" Goswies said darkly and made another grab for the wrist but Shirra was quicker this time.

"It stands in the bay, just off the sea, before the first mountain range."

"The bay area?"

Luckily they had reached a shop with a large sign stating "Launder Land", to Shirra it felt like deliverance.

"I'm here," Shirra said curtly, "Thank you." Then she looked inside. A black man sat on a chair, he was only wearing his briefs and sat reading a magazine, a basket near his feet. Other than that, no one seemed to be present and Shirra pushed the door open.

"And now?" she mused out loud.

"Shirra, you buy soap there and put in those, with your laundry, Shirra. Then dry it there, Shirra, with tokens from that machine. See, Shirra?"

Shirra hoped the woman would leave her alone.

"Oh Goswies! Thank you Goswies! How nice, Goswies! Goswies, to help me out, Goswies."

The surplus use of her name was lost on the woman. What a type! Anyway, Shirra inspected the soap vending machine. The mechanical contraption requested a particular set of coins which she had not available.

"Shirra," Goswies had grabbed her arm so suddenly Shirra hadn't a chance to evade the move, "you can change your money at the counter, see Shirra?"

Goswies stood pointing to an empty booth in the room. Shirra let the pack slide to the floor and walked to press the bell on the counter hoping the addition of another would discourage the Goswies woman. After some time, a dark muttering and some expletives emerged from an ajar door. An angry looking, bald fat man emerged, who wordlessly took her five dollar bill and returned four one-bills and four quarters. Then the man disappeared as grumpy as he'd approached.

One could not be sure he'd even seen the customer and in Shirra's case that was probably more true.

"How rude," Shirra said to Goswies by means of conversation. The woman nodded fervently. The mechanical contraption that would dispense a small box with soap was very unwieldy. Now Goswies was helpful, Shirra got the impression the woman was the right kind of rough, a match for the apparatus.

With her help, she got the soap, got it in the machine and ended up with two machines because she would not wash the sheets with the colors, or at high temperature.

The washing machines worked and Shirra, realizing she might be stuck with the woman for a good while, sat down, waiting. Goswies hummed, turned, seemed to dance but didn't and moved through the shop. She ended up in the back where she knocked on a door.

After some time the bald man appeared again. She spoke to him softly and in a moment, Shirra got a first good look at a 'dog man'. The figure looked a human with a dog head and it was not a dog at all!

Everything about the body looked human, Shirra would know! A human with very thin fur and a dog head. Shirra had seen dogs all her life and if anything, this was _not_ a dog. The dog-man, for that term, next to 'snout face' and all the other names made sense now, approached her, moving exactly like a human would. The dog-man was cautious, that was obvious in his stance.

He looked at her with very human eyes, his ears hung slack from his head and he blinked. There were not many muscles in that face. Shirra knew her own face lacked expression compared to a human, but this was more like a wild dog's head: the muzzle was full of expression but no cheeks or such. If there were human emotions, they were readable in the way the lips bared teeth and the tilt of the ears.

"Hello! Lady!" the dog sort of barked each syllable. Shirra began to understand why her own eloquence would evoke the reactions it had. Goswies walked up and stood next to the dog man. Shirra realized Goswies was gauging how she reacted to the dog man and the woman was radiant with happiness about what she saw.

"Shirra! Your expression says it all, you never saw one of these guys, did you? What are you, Shirra?" Goswies pleaded with her in a sweet voice that triggered alarms all the way through her being, including a cold chill running up her spine, "You can tell me."

Entering her political mode, something Shirra was quite good at, she explained, "I can, but I see no reason to, at this point in time."

Again, the nagging feeling of not behaving properly rose up but something was changing. Something deep inside her position to humans wasn't like before. "You see me, Goswies. Your eyes cannot possibly deceive you; you know the answer, don't you?"

Talking in this way was colliding very much with her training and disposition. But this Goswies character was a disaster and slowly she was shedding the imprint of her education. Shirra realized this process nearly happened consciously, as if she _willed_ it! It wasn't a matter of finding you are changing your behavior, adjusting your manners and bred-in reverence for the human race.

No!

Instead, it was a deliberate alteration in the classification of the 'human' as a species. Maybe seeing this dog-man here in front of her had opened her eyes? Goswies stood erect, the drab dress hanging in ungainly angles from her thin frame. The ruddy thin face beaming with familiarity, she indicated the dog-man with her nasty pointing finger.

"This, Shirra, is my good friend Drebo. He is a dog man, and certainly very bright for his people. Aren't you, Drebo?"

Drebo barked "Yes!" and seemed to be happy about that. Pieces of the puzzle fell into place, painting a picture of a non-too bright sub-race of dog people. Shirra was not sure if Greg would agree, but she had heard him say more than once that when one was presented with the truth, things tended to be clear. And here, before her, truth was pretty hard to beat.

Truth now was a human with a dog head and fine fur. Not a dog, not a man, not an anthropomorphic dog like she was a cat like being that walked upright.

It dawned on Shirra that Goswies apparently had enormous trouble getting past her senses, past her familiarity. Maybe, Goswies would decide to move on with a meaningless answer?

"I'm a cat, obviously." Shirra offered.

To this, Goswies put her hands on her knitted hat and pulled. More strands of unruly reddish hair appeared. An unpleasant smell drifted from the mass of hair. She called out as if hit with an epiphany, "I knew it!"

The smell wafting from Goswies was totally unbelievable. Shirra knew for sure that bad hygiene was not a mark of any developed species. Greg was her introduction to a smelly person, but he was the savior, wasn't he?

Time seemed to slow as with an echo she wondered again:

"Wasn't he?"

However, no answer appeared in her head.

This question seemed to move things forward. Shirra suddenly felt irritation at this female human. The woman stood here, had all her genes available, was clearly fertile and wasn't even using her natural ability to secure her race. Pah what a waste!

The lowered threshold opened new conversational lines to Shirra.

"Has anyone every described you as obnoxious, Goswies?"

Goswies merely smiled, clearly on familiar territory, "Oh, often. Shirra! Are you from outer space? Are you?"

Now it was Shirra's turn to be flabbergasted.

"From …"

Resetting, Shirra went over that last line then shook her head. What was the woman talking about? Even if she _were_ from space, she would have had to get there first, right? And then, what did it matter if she were 'from space'! How on earth could her being from space matter in _any_ way?

Tersely she replied, "Do I look spacy to you?"

"I bet you're an interstellar cat! Aren't you? Shirra, you can tell me. Can I see your space ship?"

"My… Space ship? My dear…" Shirra at the last instance replaced 'fruitcake' with, "…woman, I'm waiting for my laundry to be washed. You cannot really think I would require this, had I the technology to venture into space? What 'interstellar' can possibly mean to you is so far beyond me I think I could not see it with an extra-proportional magnifying glass."

Shirra thought back to her world, surrounded by a system of space lasers, satellites, a system put there long ago and breaking apart. Space sure must have been possible once but not anymore. "No Goswies, space travel is a thing from the past, long past, I am afraid!"

"The past? What past?" Goswies blurted excited, "Shirra? What past! The space shuttle is about to be launched and you speak of past?"

Shirra had reached a decision. This lady did not fully qualify as human. Shirra knew now her training had forced an exalted expectation towards any human. Now she could easily circumvent it by ranking the person as non-human. Goswies had to be a sub species of the humanoid sort that was most probably meaningless in any way. Keeping this in mind, she looked at the woman again, now with different eyes. Goswies sure was happy about her 'space shuttle' comment.

Preoccupied was a better characterization.

Shirra noted how Goswies was ignoring her 'friend' the dog man, completely. The woman was suffering from a severely short span of attention, it would seem.

Shirra sighed.

This was going to be a long laundry session, since Goswies seemed literally _glued_ to her.

Shirra decided to divert attention away, hoping to bring across the point of indifference. She looked at the dog man, whom eyed her emphatically. Goswies seemed to be brimming with questions but suddenly walked off, in a swirl of hand waves. As if her prayer were answered! Shirra eyed the dog intently, interested to find the social connection from him to the woman, and spoke to him while giving a nod towards the woman who walked through the launderette in a zig zag pattern towards the exit.

"She is mental."

His eyes indicated he understood. The dog rumbled and barked, "I, Sit, Ple-Ase?"

She nodded. He was certainly harmless? Actually he was rather courteous, even more so compared to the mad woman. It bothered her, the way the dog put effort in his communication. Would the dog man really use barks for communication? She noted how the dog man, he had a sort of retriever like face sat down.

He had no tail, she noted without surprise.

The dog man was clad like any human. Frayed blue jeans on his legs, the feet encased in slippers of a sort. His torso was wrapped in a patched up padded jacket that might have been shiny blue once. This dog-man smelled neutral. Carefully neutral, in fact. Very decidedly hygienic!

"You really have to bark, always?" she said softly to the dog. As expected, his ears tilted just so, to hear her words.

The dog shook his head, then, very soft and clear, spoke "You hear, they hear not. Must Bark."

"Small wonder, with those limited ears, wouldn't you say?"

Drebo the dog man nodded. "Yes."

"You do not strike me as dumb."

"No. But slow."

For one supposedly mentally limited, the dog man was quick enough. Not bright, that was clear, yet in full control of his wits within the bounds set by nature.

Suddenly she found the hand of the dog man on her arm. It was a friendly move, not threatening in any way. She found her brain was still attempting to link this dog man with anyone or anything she'd met. Her mind went in circles. Not a human, not a normal anthropomorphic fellow from her own world. This was new, and very different. How the humans here found her to resemble this race, this species, was a mystery. Now the dog man carefully felt her fur softly ruffling her hairs.

"Soft."

She nodded. In return, she felt the short fur, yellow-brown, on his forearm. It was coarse, feeling exactly like it looked. It would not protect too well against weather. It carried the pattern of color that was apparently part of his genes.

"Coarse," she said.

"You, where you are from?" he nearly whispered.

"From a place, exactly the same but with a different flip of the coin. Another set of chances that builds nearly the same world."

"I get not your meaning."

Shirra smiled and chuckled softly. "I myself hardly understand, Drebo. My m…"

She caught the word 'master'. Master? It occurred to her that Greg was not her master. He was not like that woman, though. He was much more than her. Greg was her friend, right? A good friend, certainly after all he had tried to achieve when that army was upon them!

"My … companion is a human. A very smart one. He brought me to this world to survive an attack. We were being bombarded."

"More like you?"

Shirra considered the answer. Well, in this world it was just her and Vivian. "One other much like me, and a little coyote girl who…"

Greg was totally besotted with Amandine! That meant something. It told her something about Greg, something good compared to all the angry stares she had received!

The mean words that were part of the language around her said it all, and Greg talked of 'his little girl'. His eyes would go distant when he talked about Amandine. She knew Amandine was Greg's first love, she could at best aspire to be _next_ to that coyote toddler, not above her.

Next. No more.

Shirra realized she received Greg's love as a result of time, or was it just respect… Greg had said he did not know exactly what love meant. It was so easy, he loved Amandine. With his whole being, to the core of every fiber that built him!

"You stop talk? I put you off? Sorry?"

"No, Drebo, it is not you. It is for me to digest the world I find myself in. The humans here consider me a dog. They are blind."

Shirra felt a pang of her conscience, for injustice imparted onto the human race, and she had to augment that statement. "Some of them are blind. Many I met today, in fact."

"You right. Many blind. Too difficult, a dog is a dog, they find. My," Drebo pointed to his snout, "SnoutFace".

"Demeaning," Shirra said with some disgust even if Drebo's head looked a lot like a shepherd's.

"No. True. Some dog people, they have less snout. Dog Face, but look…"

Drebo flexed his nimble fingers, took his foot from the slipper and wiggled his toes. Shirra looked on. She too could do that with her toes!

For comparison she held up her, rather large, foot with the thick, tough, callous parts, like pads, on which she walked like tough leather. Strong nails, claws, stood out from her 'toes'. Her heel did not even touch the ground. With those, she could impart serious damage. Her fingers ended in sharp nails that could penetrate skin under the right angle. Drebo was a human, just the wrong head. Oh, and a bit more hair, except for on his head. That was in all respects a dog face, muzzle, snout. Yes, all of those!

And, he seemed nice but less bright than average.

"Drebo," Shirra said, "You're not a dog. You're maybe more a human than that … woman."

"Kind. But not true. You are smart. You are more human."

Shirra smiled, despite herself. "My, Drebo, are you hitting on me? That's a very flattering remark, you know that?"

Drebo said nothing. He just looked at her.

Then, he seemed to muster some courage. "Why you walk alone, lady Wu?"

Shirra immediately recognized the reference to _Wu_ , a term in the common language referring to a celestial power, a goddess.

"Drebo!" she admonished him in the common tongue, "Don't say that!"

Drebo smiled mystically, Shirra knew she should not have spoken those words in _common._ Then he spoke carefully, in a complete sentence. "You should not walk alone," Drebo restated.

"Am I not allowed to?"

"Not that. Understand. Not safe."

"Not safe? What are you talking about? What kind of danger can I possibly expect out there?"

Drebo looked at her with a sad look.

"You are from the good place. This is not, the good place."

"The good place?" Shirra nearly exploded. "No way! I'm from a place wrecked by war, bombs, explosions, death. You don't frighten me, Drebo. I'm sure once my …" she suddenly didn't want to say 'master', "human gets his position I'll be in a good place. Right now, I find I am a little closer to the bottom than I have ever been."

Drebo just looked.

"It's temporary," Shirra said in clipped tones and held her chin high. She was _not_ a dog person. She was _not_ like them.

Auch.

That was a realization all of a sudden. She had not thought about it that way, but seeing Drebo here and finding that everybody around her identified her as one of them… their wits… their guttural barks…

She left this internal debate quickly and looked into the dark eyes of Drebo.

"Lady, please find care of your human. They think you dog wife. We cannot let wife alone out anymore. We always protect wife."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Shirra huffed, "But as I said, you'll find I'm not easily scared!"

Drebo nodded. "Snouts not allowed in shops. Not in bus. Too messy, they say."

"Messy? Ha! Did you see that nutcase dancing around? I dare say she sheds more than the average dog."

"Nice try. Not true, you know it."

Drebo stroked her arm, quite friendly too. He showed the hairs he had retrieved from her dense fur. She felt ashamed at once. Had she put in a good brush-down this morning, this would not have happened.

Drebo wasn't _that_ stupid, after all.

"I'm… so sorry," she said flushed. Her head warmed with the realization that this way she was not presentable to anyone, really! She felt bad. In fact, she felt like she was sinking. This process of spiraling down a maelstrom of self-inflicted agitation was interrupted by an off-key, guttural voice.

"Drebo! Where are you, you good for nothing snout! Ah there!"

A broom was thrown across the shop and landed before the dog man. He picked up the broom and barked "sor-ry!" and looked at her apologetically.

"You right too. Do not trust Goswies. Always a scheme."

Then he disappeared through the door he had come in through. The shout had also gotten Goswies back into the shop. She ran over and sat down in Drebo's place, shifting her bulk.

"Heee Shirra, Hmmm. Drebo warmed my seat nicely."

"Your seat?"

"Well, Shirra, not mine in a material sense of course. Ahaha! I'm sure the universe is bigger than we see, Shirra, isn't it?"

"I wouldn't know, Goswies!"

Shirra virtually gnawed on that last, hoping to convey how this name-repeating was getting on her nerves.

"Shirra, I feel I can tell you anything. Like that one time I…"

"What a coincidence, I feel like I want to impart nothing onto you, thank you."

"Shirra? Why the animosity all of a sudden? I am on your side, Shirra."

"Super, Goswies, very nice. Right now, I am going to wait for my laundry."

"We can wait together, Shirra, talk a bit like friends do!"

"I imagine you do not have many friends, Goswies, other than like Drebo, who, I fear, has not much choice in the matter."

"Why, Shirra! How can you know if I have friends, other than having spied on me? Shirra, I bet you know exactly what I do at night! Hmmhihi, especially just before sleeping, Shirra?"

Shirra rolled her eyes.

"Goswies, if you repeat anyone's name this much they are bound to break with you, for that reason alone. If I may give you a word of advice, go out and find a man, make babies and do your duty! The holy book is clear on our goal, I say. The prophet would not consider your wasteful life acceptable."

Goswies' eyes went large with alarm. "Uh… The 'prophet'?"

Wow, that had at least gotten across!

"Yes!" Shirra confirmed.

"Are you some Islamic or what?"

"Of course I am! There is no other truth, or is there?"

Goswies shied back from her, as Shirra pushed her nose closer to the woman.

"But, but, they have overthrown the Shah in Iran, you cannot condone that? People flee that country, the embassy was even occupied! They're not nice, you know!"

Shirra had no idea what this talk was about. She rephrased the teachings that immediately surfaced in her mind.

"It will be a grand day when the Caliph returns, the infidel will sacrifice their soul then for naught."

"Oh! You _are_ one of them! For all I know you're all like that. Good luck with your insane mission, ugly dog! Don't think I will be there to save your soul when you face your doom, in this _free_ country!"

With that, she dusted her dress and pulled her coat close, fastening the duffle-coat and marched right out of the shop, out of Shirra's life if God had any mercy. The door clicked closed and next only the sound of the washing machine was heard. Shirra sat at ease and looked at the dark man in his shorts. He looked at her, nodded friendly and returned to his book. The clock showed it to be about half past ten. Shirra felt exhausted, after the confrontation with that Goswies, both mentally and physically. Leaning back, she started following the second hand on the clock. Tick… tock…


	7. Chapter 7

7\. Homebound

…Beep!

Shirra shuddered awake. The clock had progressed ten minutes and one of the machines beeped. The black man stood collecting his dried laundry from one of the dryers. He put on his trousers, a T-shirt and shirt, tie and completed with a jacket. During that, he checked her once or twice. The attire was pretty smart and fitted on his thin frame well. Carelessly he put the rest of his laundry in a large bag and zipped that closed then shouldered his bag, glimpsing at her expectantly once more and pushed past her.

"Thank you!" he said, looking quickly away and walked to the door.

Now what was that all about?

Shirra looked about her, why anyone would 'thank you' her but nothing came to mind. With a shrug, she sat back for the next round of waiting and semi-sleeping.

Finally, after half an hour, both the machines were ready. Now she only needed to dry. Separating the quick and slow drying pieces she filled two tumble dryers. From the money in her pocket she retrieved coins for the machines and sat back.

An odd feeling made her pat her pocket and her stomach turned to stone while she produced the contents ever quicker. Alarm set in as she emptied her other pocket, only to find _nothing!_

"Hold it!" she admonished herself. A moment of thinking brought her to realize she had put the two twenty dollar bills in the backpack!

Relieved she took the pack and went through the pockets. Starting with the left one, where she was sure she'd put them but eventually going all over the pack. Empty!

By the time she'd methodically covered all pockets of the pack the words 'Thank you' came to mind… that man! She ran to the door, looked out into the street where some people looked at her with a blank look. The guy was gone of course.

Robbed!

How could she have been so stupid!

By a human, no less.

"Robbed," she mouthed silently, "by a human!"

How could this be?

"How!" she groaned and pulled her hair, "how, how, how!"

Everything she had ever come to believe about humans, come to expect from them, everything was different. Every tiny last bit of the pattern in her head, concerning them, needed to be rewired. Were these creatures humans? No way! They were mad, thieving and mean.

These were disparaging people, all set to make one's life miserable. Shirra felt terrible, coming to that conclusion. And so, feeling thoroughly miserable, she sagged onto the chair and sat looking at the dryers.

"It's my own fault," she realized. If she'd been a maid in the streets of the Citadel no one would have dared rob her. But out in Campone she knew what to expect. All the inhabitants there were quite like the humans here, if more fearful of her. She swallowed. It was worse. Campone dwellers had respected her, these humans here; they despised her, mistreated her and disrespected her.

"My own, stupid, stupid, fault!" she repeated softly. Greg would surely have something to say about this but he'd not warned her either.

He could've, couldn't he?

A new feeling rose up, something tainting. But before she could investigate it, her moment of derisive wallow in self-pity ended when a loud clambering of the entrance door. It meant another customer entered. Shirra looked, this was a father with a child, she presumed.

Shirra followed the pair as the father carried his bags to the machine and started putting the laundry in. A scoop of soap powder was produced from a box in the bags. It didn't take long for the child to note her.

A friendly little fellow, he seemed, his face reminded her somewhat of Greg but this kid had a different style nose. Maybe six years old, she guessed. He had a brown skin, and brown eyes, with black curly hair. His pants were of a shiny material with stripes down the sides and a matching jacket. On his feet he had brightly colored shoes with white soles and some stripes as well. The kid walked over and came to stand very close to her. He sniffed her.

"You smell of roses."

"That is very perceptive of you, what is your name?"

"Rick."

Rick eyed her and added, "You'se a weird looking dog."

"Maybe I'm not a dog?"

"You'se look-a-like a cat. Or some ugly dog."

"Am I ugly for a cat?"

Rick considered that. "No," he finally replied.

"Rick!" the father cried none too gentle, "Get here, I don't want to have to vacuum-clean you all over, like last time! You know I don't want you to get involved with those flea bags!"

Rick took note of his father's objections but did not move from his spot.

"You speak a lot, for a dog. You'se a smart cat."

Shirra realized the parent wasn't too thrilled and supplied, "Maybe you better go to your father. He does not want you to talk to me."

The kid stroked her arm. "Soft," Rick noted, echoing Drebo's comments. The father saw the touching and he jumped up in anger. In two steps he was at her and grabbed his son by the arm, while his other came around in a sweeping arc towards her.

Shirra saw the strike coming, but the in-built tolerance for human-kind made her physically prepare rather than anticipate.

The father backhanded her with full force, sending Shirra off her chair. She landed on the ground.

"I said 'back off', you dumb snout!"

"It's a cat, dad."

"Shut up Rick, or you're grounded for a week."

"Yes, dad."

The two returned to their washing machine. The kid was dumped on the chair next to the father who placed a small paper bag in front of them and collected from it a very unsavory piece of bread with a suggestion of meat in between on which he greedily bit down with a sigh, as if he was accessing the gate to heaven. The child got a paper cup with plastic cover with straw.

Shirra was appalled at the choice of food. It smelled interesting but there was a layer of 'sweet' in there that called a distasteful sense to her mind and stomach.

What a way to mistreat the digestive tract of any organism. With a little glee, she noted the child did not like the stuff in the cup too much. It had cost her quite some trouble to keep Greg from that sort of food, when they were locked in the military base. Greg had reverently called it 'fast food'.

A little later, the man dozed off. Rick got off his chair, after checking on his father with a little push, and moseyed over to Shirra again. He immediately started feeling her fur but it was not at all like Drebo had done, Rick pulled at her hair unpleasantly.

"What is your name?" he asked.

"I'm called Shirra .Will you please not pull my hairs? It hurts."

Shirra moved her arm to get away from the pulling, but Rick simply followed and continued.

"I know it hurts, easier with you than the dogs."

Shirra sat debating what to do with the hair-pulling kid.

"Shirra is a stupid name. Who thought of that?"

"Stop! Rick! You are being rude. My mother named me, and she was a very good cat."

"Dad says you can kick dog people around. It's fun."

"It's not ever fun to.. ow! Stop it Rick!"

She grabbed the kid's wrist, forcing him to stop. He eyed her deviously.

"I will tell my father you hit me."

The inequality of the whole situation washed over Shirra. At that, she let go and moved her arm out of reach. Rick grinned, liking the game and he simply reached his free arm to grab a hand full of the white hair from the arm she was arresting him with.

"Stop it Rick, you're pulling whole patches out!"

Suddenly Rick's eyes went large with anticipation, accompanied by a long "Ohh!"

Shirra had no idea what had triggered this but at least the pulling had stopped.

"Get up, I want to pull your tail."

Hissing with the effort to restrain her anger, she kept both his wrists in check and told him to get lost.

"You are not a nice child, Rick. Please leave me alone. Now!"

This hit home and Rick seemed to accept. She let go and he did not hurt her again.

Then his eyes pulled into a nasty smile. "I know something fun."

The unpleasant boy walked off, collected his drink and sucked his mouth full so that his cheeks were bulging. He seemed to swallow a little, moved over and stood before her. He was rinsing his mouth with whatever it was. A vile smile crept into his visage, on top of the bulging cheeks it was rather off-putting.

Concerned, Shirra said, "You should swallow, Rick. This is not good for your teeth, I am sure."

Rick nodded and put his hands on his cheeks, feeling them. To Shirra's astonishment he then hit his cheeks full force so he sprayed all over her. She froze, a memory rose up of a fellow cat dying from the spray of a 'blanche', the people who appeared in her own world. That cat had stiffened up, gasping and simply stopped living. It had been drawn out, and very painful. Shirra waited with dread for this to set in.

"You're no fun," Rick noted, as he'd hoped she would react rather than freeze up, and walked off.

Relaxing slowly, Shirra found her clothes sprinkled from top to bottom with sticky, sweet black spots. Her white fur was stained all over her arms and her head must look a mess!

Rick, the kid from hell, sat next to his dad enjoying the view. She could do nothing about it. Not about Rick, nor about her appearance.

She hadn't any rag or cloth to clean her, and she was not, no matter what, going to strip out of her clothes in front of that brat. Wiping her eyes, she found the sticky sugary product was already beginning to dry. And so she sat, waiting, getting worked up, angry with herself and with the world at large, noting the silently laughing boy and his father.

Elated, she saw the father stir. He looked at his son, patted the boy, appearing content at finding him next to him. Then he looked at her and sniggered.

"My God, what the fuck did you do? See, Rick, those dogs are filthy pieces of work. You keep away or yer gonna look the same."

"Yes dad," The brat answered his father obediently.

"Ahhhh!" Shirra yelled in frustration.

At this, Drebo appeared. He saw how she looked and shook his head. When he reappeared, it was with a wet towel. The fabric of that was slightly smelly and Drebo said he was sorry, but under the circumstances, she accepted it thankfully. As she expected, it was going to take a lot of work to get the gunk out and without an immediate shower her fur would look brownish and tarnished for days.

That brat!

The humans here did not even have halfway decent children, how she had ever expected these people to be as refined as the blanches she couldn't recall for the life of her. Certain was, though, that this human-like life form was not going to receive her gratitude!

Drebo deserved it, and lots too. Right now, she wanted to be home in her house in Campone but even the apartment with Greg, Viv and the toddler was preferred, by far, over this abysmal location.

The door opened again, allowing a black woman who reminded her of an overweight version of Blikol. It was a pitch black, unhealthily oversized woman. She was dressed in a sort of sports suit, remarkably like the little boy, and approached the duo of father and son and spoke to them.

The woman then stopped talking, noticing her. Her dark eyes clearly held no love for her either. After the kid explained something she laughed nastily at Shirra.

Shirra meanwhile was trying to cope with the information in front of her. Here was a black woman and a white man with their child. How was this possible? Greg had said he had a white mother and a black father. Somehow she hadn't ever really believed that. And here, now, it was in front of her. Undeniable, solid.

"Ha ha! See that ugly dog there? Rick, care to tell me about that?"

The father patted Rick, "He was next to me all the time."

"Yes dad."

"Don't talk me around Boid."

The father looked up, impressed, and said nothing, then frowned at his son who shrugged. In response, the mother backhanded the boy. The kid took it stoically, everything Shirra knew about parenting, everything she had seen in her own town, nothing matched with what she saw.

There was not a single grain of her essence that was configured to understand this. Parents who hit their child for no reason, such aggression and unjust treatment. Why? In a world where all might do as they wished, they would choose this? Give people freedom and achieve this?

The woman walked to her to take a closer look. She moved her gaze about her for a bit and concluded loudly: "Damn, what an ugly bitch _that_ is."

Satisfied, she returned, collected the boy. The father filled his bags with wet laundry as he took a look on his watch and the family left.

Shirra was alone again in the room with the 'slop-slop' noise of the dryers. Finally one went 'beep'. Her red dress was dry as was the underwear she'd put in there. She looked around and decided it looked safe as no one was in the shop now. She might as well be quick about it and certainly feel better for it!

Behind the row of machines, just next to the counter, she removed her shirt, found her brassiere smudged as well and threw her dress over her head. In a few seconds this was completed. Now she could easily get out of the pants and exchange her underwear. The additional laundry went into another of the washing machines. Her money was running low; only one drying run was possible. But, still she felt better and she sat down again, determined not to let any member of that deranged human species get to her.

Would Greg ever have been as mad as these humans?

Was he still like that?

She patted her forehead, unable to fathom where the thought originated. Things were going haywire in her head! Greg loved her, didn't he?

He'd said so.

And she, she loved… him.

What was love, anyway? It did not sit anywhere in a body. It could not be measured. A set of unrelated chemical substances that was what it was! She'd seen it, during her training, the combinations of hormones and pheromones that would result from 'love', one shot of that stuff and the subject under test would feel in love. In love with a chair, if need be! Yes, the physics and biotechnical mechanics of a body were no secret to her. But what did it mean for the psyche?

Shirra watched the rotating washer and wondered about everything she'd seen so far, all the time battling the guilt of losing the money. She needed something to take her mind off things! In the end she found a newspaper. It was a copy of the one Greg had gotten the day before. Shirra browsed through it.

The headers meant nothing to her, also she realized that speaking English and reading it didn't mean she could read a newspaper. She didn't know the sayings, the proverbs, the _meaning_.

Only now she noticed something: all images were black and white, using some sort of smart dithering method. Furthermore, there seemed to be a lot of news about products and services. Many texts tried to convince her a particular product or service would be very much to her advantage.

How odd! Take the one with the smiling woman. It was requesting her to buy a certain cream which would hold her skin tight somehow.

Shirra felt her skin once more, taking a fold between her fingers. The hairs tilted with the rolling move she made. Taut skin? How would a cream solve this? It was certainly possible to stimulate the production of certain substances in the cells, but the outer layer of cells was dead. Everybody surely was aware of this? Perhaps in this world they had biologically active creams?

Shirra frowned. How to keep the enzymes from decaying, in a salve? The packaging that was shown surely didn't match with that. Also, if one did apply enzymes or hormones in such quantities… unless of course it was all a scam. A newspaper that printed such blatant lies, it couldn't be. She probably just misunderstood something.

Shaking her head, she turned the page. Further on, an image over half the page tried to instill in her the urge to buy a specific health product against hair loss and grayness of hair. Interested, she read the claims on that page. The letters were exceedingly small, as if tucked away, at the very end of the large print.

Why print so small? This was important information, wasn't it?

Sort of, though? In a somewhat befuddled state of mind, Shirra's eyes drifted about. She felt weird, fatigued, but that was to be expected.

The door at the far end opened. Shirra looked up to see Drebo walk in. He walked up to her, regarding her holding the newspaper. He spoke softly, like before.

"You read, white lady?"

"Please call me Shirra, Drebo. Yes, I read the paper. Trying to, at least."

Drebo just looked impressed.

"It's weird, Drebo. See this? It's about a product against gray hair. I ask you, how can the simpletons I have seen today know of the intricate mechanisms concerning the production of hair and peroxides tied in there?"

Drebo frowned, "Uh?"

"Gray hair?" Shirra repeated.

"Yes?"

"Gray hair is very difficult to stop. Also, as I have white hair already this substance would not do me any good. Still the text claims to know I will have use of this product. See: 'for anyone!' it says."

"I don't know about the paper too much, white lady. I know about ads. And I know ads always lie."

"Lie?" it was Shirra's turn to frown, "You mean this," she tapped the ad, "is _not_ true and yet it is printed, large like?"

Shirra put the paper on her lap and stared at it. Why print lies?

"Are humans totally crazy?" she asked. Again she felt the pang of unjust accusation. It rattled her to her core, saying that, so easily. She shook with the impact. Drebo went to his knees, looking up at her. He was probably concerned although she had no idea how to read Drebo's face.

"What is the matter?"

"I am being unjust to humans. I should not speak so of them. They are our masters, after all…" then added through a clenched jaw, "thieves or not!"

That could not be, these humans she'd seen today… her masters? Ridiculous! The black man had stolen her money, just like that! Why?

"They are no master. You know better, I can see. You are special, lady Shirra, _Tigress_ _from the mountains_." Drebo stood, made a keen little bow with his upper body, "I am honored to meet you."

Now he waited.

"Drebo? Is there something I should know?"

"Be careful, white lady. The humans… they care not for us. They speak difficult. Say not what they mean. My kind, we never understand, but I see you can understand."

"Understand? Ha! You have to be kidding me, Drebo. I don't get it why they treat their own offspring so badly. You know, there was a child in here, already so mean and cruel that he… well you know what happened. Here, the stains are all over my fur yet."

"You speak too fast. I cannot follow you."

Shirra nodded in dawning understanding. "Blessed are those with a limited mind."

"We're not stupid. But, we're not smart either, not with words."

Shirra didn't know how to react to that utterly sincere statement. Drebo was certainly not an idiot, but she was speaking in too difficult ways, for him. She patted the empty chair's seat next to her.

"Humans aren't what I thought," Shirra explained eventually.

Drebo just nodded.

"A man stole my money. A Black man at that!" Shirra's anger took over, "How could he do that? I mean, I'm a white cat. He should have seen that, he should have known I'm the head of a household. He wouldn't have _dared_ , he couldn't have… he…."

Shirra panted with anger, her hands balled to shaking fists.

"You need money?" Drebo asked.

"Ha!" Shirra chirped, "Yes I do, I've no idea how Greg will explode if he finds he can't trust me with forty dollars and change."

Drebo's eyes went into a frown, thinking.

Shirra brushed her hair a few times with one hand, sliding her fingers front to back over her head, in an attempt to find some calm. "I'm not sure but I think it's not even a large sum of money," she mused.

Drebo walked off, left the room and returned.

"Here," he said, thrusting a bill to Shirra.

A twenty dollar bill hung from his hard worked human hand. He held it just as delicately as Greg would. Shirra looked up, she blinked through the sudden watery view her eyes provided and sniffed hard.

Her hand slowly went to the bill but she stopped just short of it.

"I…" she began.

"Please take!" Drebo pushed against her cone-nailed finger.

Resolutely Shirra pulled her arms over her torso and shook her head. "I'm… I can't do that!"

"Good money. I give you. My honor."

Shirra looked into Drebo's eyes. His brown eyes were genuine, caring and free but also in _awe_. He was giving to her to appease his … his … Shirra gulped. His deity? She didn't follow but it all generated too much turmoil in her head.

Drebo put the bill on her bag with reverie. "Take," Drebo nodded to her with his eyes downcast. Then he left, the bill lay there next to her, gluing Shirra's eyes to it.


	8. Chapter 8

8\. Dark Weather

A 'ping' recalled her from the spell-bond watching of the money Drebo had left next to her. The sound indicated laundry was ready.

She shouldn't take the money…or should she? Well, there was no telling when this money would offer them solace, so reluctantly Shirra put it in her purse and started to collect the clothing. Hoisting the backpack full of cleaned laundry, she went out into the street. The light had dimmed already and Shirra looked up.

Grey.

That was something you didn't see often! Also, there was wind which tugged at her red dress and there was a cold edge to that wind that was totally alien to her Californian desert mind-set. Humans in the street didn't seem to notice the change in weather here at all, there also were noticeably fewer people than before.

The bus stop was quickly reached and with a sigh she sat on the small bench near it. The bench had suffered quite some damage, Shirra saw. Burn marks were over it, something sticky was covering part of it and an unwholesome smell hung about it.

"How fitting," Shirra felt.

Down the street she could see the bus drawing near, the destination spelled on it was the same as before.

"Oh, stupid!" she chided herself. The return bus stop would be at the other side! Before she had gotten up the door opened and the driver looked around her to an old man who slowly walked past her, pushing her aside without a word as he got on.

It all happened without word!

Once she had crossed the street, she felt the other side of the street looked very similar. A look up and down the street made her realize she would be quite lost without aid. Where had she come from? Everything looked the same here. Reading the street signs was not helping much, they signified numbers and she had no idea what her address was at all.

Only now it hit her.

Stupid, stupid, stupid, little girl!

How could she have forgotten to memorize the most simple of things, "where do you live?"

She gritted her teeth. Getting mad at herself was not solving the issue. That weirdo Goswies woman had distracted her so much!

The cold wind blew through the street, and under her dress. The fabric was made to handle a warm climate, like in California, not this cold wind which blew right through it and into her fur. Her fur was not lush enough to handle this cold. All in all, she felt very unpleasant. The sky was filled with looming clouds as far as the eye reached. She didn't like it.

After some moments, a man walked up, to wait for the bus. He was immersed in a book and tried to ignore her. Tried to, because his eyes scanned her every time her dress blew in the cold wind. The man was well dressed and wore glasses and had a cap on his head. He harrumphed and purposefully ducked behind his little book.

When the bus finally appeared Shirra let the man go first. The man talked softly to the driver, indicated her and they laughed. Shirra waited and just before she could enter the bus the door was closed on her with the driver waving, as he drove off.

"That was rude!" Shirra yelled, her fist shaking in the air.

"Well, that's just great!" she growled, shouldering the pack. There was nothing for it; she'd have to wait for the next bus. Goswies had 'helped' her get onto the bus. Shirra wondered what she had missed.

The bus driver that had taken her here had reacted so strange… that stupid woman too… were 'dog people' really so badly treated here? The blanches had been strange people, but they had had much more decorum than the sorry excuses for humans she had met so far here. Now she had to wait in the cold street again!

Time crawled past and the street became ever less crowded. To make matters worse, her stomach growled to indicate she should have thought to take food along. Thinking of eating made her thirsty too. Hunger and thirst… she looked around if there might be any shop or place to get a drink, but with all the shops she had no idea what an eating place looked like. In the end, she walked back to the shop hoping to find Drebo there. He wasn't and she was escorted out with a few unfriendly remarks.

At the moment she left the launderette she felt the cold outside once more. As she passed a small store en route to the bus stop she saw the goods on sale there. That had to be edible!

Before she even set a foot inside the proprietor walked out to backhand her.

"Stupid furbal! We don't serve dogs! Are you blind?"

He pointed at some patch on the door which showed a red circle with a diagonal line running through a stylized dog man image. "Not served." it said below that.

Her face burning from the slap, Shirra felt bad in so many ways she couldn't give it a name. Singled out, she was, put aside, cast into an ill-fitting mold of 'dog people'.

Miserable, she went to the bus stop to wait. Before the bus arrived she had to endure a group of three fair skinned youths who called her names she did not all understand too well but it was clear their jests were sexual and vulgar.

When she finally replied to the taunts, saying, "Please, could you leave me alone?" they were startled but then reinforced their barrage of mean remarks although they were clearly unsure now and kept their distance.

The arrival of the bus signaled the end of the name calling and the three youths ran into the bus, showing some sort of card. She entered and the driver looked quizzically at her appearance. One of the youths ran back to push her from the bus, just like that. The driver was totally happy to see her 'leave' and drove off.

That was bus number two.

Shirra resigned to the facts. She would have to wait again. There had to be at least one bus in this prophet-forsaken place that would take her? Waiting only pressed the hunger and thirst unto her once more. Why did all these humans hate her so!

It was with some surprise therefore when she was spoken to. It was a smartly dressed man who had a suitcase with him. He talked to her for a moment about her dress.

As she replied to his questions, this man too was surprised she could speak. He indicated he found it an altogether interesting ability of her and he felt her fur. His stroke did not feel nice at all; it felt loaded with ugly desire. The man sidled up to her, so close to her that she took an involuntary step back.

"Don't be afraid, my sweet dog. I am versed in dog moves. Let me show you…"

The man reached for her dress and pulled it up. Shirra hit at the probing hands with alarm.

Again, she felt the internal struggle at doing this. She was not supposed to hit humans, ever. In her defense, she decided it was not at all clear if this person was a human, by her definition. The man appeared one, but wasn't acting accordingly!

Again, she was saved by the arrival of the bus. This time the bus driver greeted her loudly and welcoming. "Well, color me blue! If it isn't the travelling dogette again! Come on in!"

Shirra's hope rose. It was the driver who'd admitted her on her way up here. Would he allow her? The fear of being stranded was beginning to take root.

"Well? Don't just stand there! It's getting cold, you know!"

Relieved Shirra mounted the few steps into the bus and asked carefully how much money she owed for the trip. "Ha! You're something, you know that? Well, since you officially can't ride this bus anyway I'll take you for a smile. How's that?"

Shirra stood nailed to the floor of the bus. Was the driver offering her a fare, for a _smile_?

"Well?" the driver asked grandly, smiling, waving his hand in the air.

Shirra looked down the bus, it was not empty but people appeared to be engrossed in active ignorance. Then, with a shrug she looked at the driver with a tilt of her head, turned her pelvis out a bit and produced pouting lips. Not that she had much in the way of lips, but she knew Greg liked her pose.

"Holy moly!" the driver exclaimed, "That, I'll do you for, doglady. Have a seat. It's just a few stops anyhow!"

She accepted a seat and the driver's beaming smile. Making sure she sat close to the driver, she impossibly tried to blend into the seat so that the old man who'd gotten on with her couldn't see her. The bus' motor roared to life and they merged into the traffic. Looking outside, she could see the few people in the street hastening onwards on the sidewalk.

A funny soft-screeching sound pulled her attention to the windshield. Something was wiping droplets from it.

Rain.

Big cold drops.

A swishing motion pushed the water off the windshield, leaving a semi-arc free to see through.

Rain. Cold. Wet. It would be unpleasant, outside!

The bus stopped at one of the many traffic lights, the first red one since they had started and the driver turned around to her. "Miss doggie, don't forget to get off! I just zipped past your stop, maybe you forgot to push the stop button?"

"Stop button?" she asked, unknowing.

"Ah. Tell you what, this light takes ages so you just get out here and walk back to your stop. Okay?"

He opened the door and she accepted his suggestion with something close to a curtsy. "Thank you sir!" she said and walked out, into the rain.

On the sidewalk she turned. The bus drove on with the green signal, she followed it, moving off. In a way she felt as if the driver had saved her. The warmth of his person had revived her senses.

When she couldn't see the bus anymore, she exhaled. Only now she noticed she'd been holding her breath. The wind pummeled her face in a fierce gust, parting her fine fur-cover this way and that and exposing the skin to the cold.

The rain wasn't too easy either. Rough and fat pellets of water had generated puddles. Water flowed over the street. Traffic that rushed past threw it up in a shower, just a few meters further.

On the side walk she stood, in the rain and wind, getting wet. Misery crept into her feeling, faced with this place, these people, this weather, this _loneliness_.

With the pack on her back she started walking, bent over in an attempt to use the pack as rain blocker. After a few steps she began to feel an itch between her legs.

"Ignore, walk on!" she thought.

Step.

Step.

Itch.

Step.

She was feeling miserable _and_ she was feeling the ever rising irritation between her legs.

Shirra looked about and scratched. What was this? She thought about the soap she'd used. What if it hadn't rinsed out well? She knew she was sensitive to that.

All of this was culminating in stress of a sort she could not recall having felt ever. At once her overactive conscience retaliated with a haughty 'ever?'. Ha! She'd endured a bombardment! She'd endured hardships… the painful image of her broken leg and then something surfaced she never wanted to even think about, she _felt_ the miscarriage she'd endured.

That had been bad, differently so, though. The heavy backpack with clean laundry dug into her shoulders and the dark red dress was getting wetter and wetter.

She had nothing to guard against the rain.

This world was the worst place she had ever been to! Why had Greg decided on going here?

A lit clock across the street indicated it to be near evening. A grumbling noise rose up from her stomach. Shirra set her jaw; she was not so easily brought under the spell of doom! With a decisive step she walked on the sidewalk. The driver had said she'd passed her halt and so she walked back in the direction the bus had come from. Easy as pie, nothing to it. She need only recognize the bus-stop where she had gotten on.

###

Again, she noted a clock across the street. She'd been walking for an hour! Drenched, cold and shivering she looked around. Nothing she saw kindled her memory, where was she?

"Excuse me?" she tried again, with the next passerby.

This man too reacted with a slightly spastic jump and looked at her if she were a sort of wraith before hurrying off. For all she knew she looked terrible in her wet fur & wet red dress. The water weighed the dress down, so it hung about her ungainly, clinging to her frame. She shook her head to get the moisture out.

Luckily, it had stopped raining but the wind had picked up again. And as the wind increased a notch, her self-esteem went down a notch. She wasn't too conscientious about her appearance, normally it was easily brought to an acceptable level and she would not spend too much time on it; however the way she looked now felt terrible.

The sum of all the adversity today made her want to cry.

She looked across the street where she saw a bus stop. It meant nothing to her, again. In a restless feeling of dread she crossed the street and tried to fathom where to go next. Washed out, she sat down on the bench at the bus-stop to catch her breath and get her bearings.

Once she had caught her breath, she decided to carefully study the buildings, consider the road she'd walked. First of all, she decided, she'd walked the wrong way.

"I need to return to that crossing where I got off the bus."

She needed to walk back an hour and then retrace her steps to the crossing… of course! She had passed the yellow building at that corner. With the image strongly in her mind's eye she started walking, fast. She _would_ get home! The least of homes maybe, but still, dry and warm and safe.

###

The yellow building! It was there, at long last! Her feet were killing her, the straps of the backpack seemed razors cutting her flesh. The wind had dried her dress some, at the expense of precious warmth she was mustering with the exercise.

The cold was only held at bay with the vigor she managed to reach 'home'. When she finally stood at the crossing where the bus had turned she saw her bus stop at last and happily she arrived there. The sky was darkening with clouds again, the breeze had picked up in force to a gale and the streets seemed deserted of pedestrians.

 _Real_ bad weather was upon her.

After a careful look, she walked on to the street she had started from finding the sign '85th' and she physically cried out with a loud 'yay!'. Shirra clapped her hands together but did not jump for all the weight. A touch on her back made her mentally jump though, and she called out "Hey?" while she turned.

A light skinned duo stood there, both wore dark clothes and one had blue eyes reminiscent of a blanche. Her mind, trained to recognize this, fell in and she curtsied as well as possible.

This earned her a kick in the muzzle and a loud laugh. She held her nose, it was bleeding! Why had this human done this? As if automatic, she said "Have I failed you in any way, lord?"

Her mind was set to certain pathways but that _new_ feeling was there too. It was active, all the time, fed by the reactions she received of humans all the time. Her question luckily had caught the pair by surprise. They stopped whatever they planned and the blue eyed human who'd kicked her was trying to make sense of what she'd said.

The moment passed.

As quickly as before, the blue eyed human made a sweep with his arm. He'd have flattened her easily, given the muscles that stood out on his arm. The man seemed to combine the looks of a black human from her world and a blanche. And, because of his blue eyes Shirra ducked.

Shirra ducked instinctively for the possible enzyme spray that a blanche might visit upon any unsuspecting personnel.

Ducking put her totally off balance and the heavy backpack propelled her forward. She bowled into the man. By the time Shirra got up, leaving the pack on the sidewalk, she stood opposing two pale skinned humans of considerable physical strength.

Shirra had no idea how to proceed. They were attacking her, why? They were so much like blanches she had no desire to fight back. None at all.

Seeing her indecision, one of them laughed. The other picked it up, laughing even louder he made an interesting move that resulted in a kick. The heavy boot, Shirra recognized it as army material, connected with her leg. Her leg had been broken once, and while it had mended fantastically this kick rung through her framebones.

Shirra's whole mind rung with the kick.

Mistreatment to personnel occurred. All the time.

Another kick followed, from the other one. This one caught her on her pelvis. It didn't hurt too much but the force was such she felt a slightly snapping motion at the base of her spine.

"Damn!" the one called to the other, "That bitch is a tough one!"

Shirra heard how the blanche called damnation on them.

A blanche wouldn't!

"The prophet will serve you!" Shirra growled and got up, praying for the strength she needed, fuelled by a fiery anger.

Her side ached something fierce, a hot pain shot up from her leg when she tried to stand on it.

"You fuckin' dog! I'm going to tear you apart!" said the one.

"Eheh!" agreed the other.

Snap.

She felt her lower back, burning, up her spine, to her head.

Snap! That was not her spine.

Something snapped. In her mind, something shifted, like her spine had felt a moment ago. The most low-inscribed rule she held was being adjusted.

This man was not a human, certainly no blanche. He looked like it, walked like it and talked like it.

That was all.

This was not the sort she had to be obedient to.

Standing unsteadily on her aching leg she was trying to find a way to face the pair of assailants. Breath came in bits in pieces. Dancing on her feet she slowly regained some balance.

The pair noticed her new stance and they both produced a nasty short knife. They didn't waste their precious oxygen on talking. Battle hardened, they circled her.

With a sickening 'plop' Shirra felt something pop back at her pelvis, she cried a short 'ahh!'. The pain in her leg changed and with some effort, tensing her muscles, the stability was back. Okay, that turned the cards! She'd been the top of her class, and that included many things physical.

Shirra slowly squatted, adjusting her wet dress in preparation all the while noting the position of either attacker. If they were good enough, one might get a thrust in, there was nothing for it. Shirra feigned a step forward and made both attackers jump back.

"Idiots!" she thought, making the best of this unexpected opportunity. Her strong legs and partly digitigrade feet propelled her forward at inhuman speeds, bowling over the one guy.

Her claw fingers ripped lines on the skin of the leg.

Shirra rose up and faced her other attacker. This guy was lunging for her with his knife, and by sheer luck she deflected it with her elbow. The arc her arm described ended on the guy's back and she turned over her axis to land on his back.

As she pushed off, she heard him go 'oomph', losing his air. When she landed on the ground next to them, poised for another attack, the pair got up and faced her, ready to attack. Then they suddenly left in a hurry.

Shirra relaxed, seeing their behinds. The pair of them could easily have killed her, what luck she overwhelmed their senses so!

"Hrm!"

Shirra whirled around. A man stood there, he held a gun and it was pointed at her.

"Impressive moves," the man said. His voice was dark and carried a weird timbre that wasn't English at all, but also didn't sound like the common language of her world.

"Who are you?" Shirra wondered aloud, seeing the wrapped up face and the covering coat, showing only eyes and hands.

Motioning his hand, the man said, "Money and bag."

It occurred to Shirra the twilight wasn't showing much, the street was empty and given the reaction of the pair who'd just fled, this guy might be very dangerous.

"Taking too long!" the man grumbled.

Having a gun pointed at you is certainly an underestimated danger. Shirra, however, had just survived a bombardment. Now, that made her much less shivery than the next person but she wasn't stupid. It allowed her, though, to consider that this man wasn't willing to shoot her just like that. He wasn't a cold blooded killer.

"Dammit, stupid dog!" the man growled, showing his impatience, and waved his weapon at her.

Despite the danger, the curse still made Shirra recoil. Angrily, she muttered, "The prophet takes exception to those who call for damnation."

The man froze for a second.

"What the _fuck_ did you just say?" the man demanded, he now sounded much less in control. His hand vibrated a bit.

"Unstable mind," Shirra thought and took a step back, away from the backpack.

"What _did_ you say?" the man demanded, anger surfacing in the voice. Shirra saw the muzzle of the handgun raised to her head. If that doesn't cause fear in your bones, you're mad, and so Shirra repeated what she'd muttered.

"What prophet!" the man snarled, a hysteric note appearing, he rushed forward and grabbed her dress. The steel of the gun felt cold against her skull.

That it would end like this.

"I am sorry I failed you, Greg," she thought and swallowed a lump, but knew she was at peace with her maker.

"Speak!" the man pressed her. The steel bore into her skin painfully. The man was mad, no doubt. It wouldn't matter what she'd say, this was the end. Shirra closed her eyes and called up the strength of prayer.

"Mohammed, praise his name."

"Fuck!" the man called in dismay.

The pressure of the gun disappeared.

She felt her dress released.

When she looked, the man had opened the coat and he showed his face. "You… believe, don't you? You're… real?" he asked, in a voice so mellow and warm, Shirra fell to her knees with the release of the tension.

"Yes," she said and began to turn east. "I shall pray to the prophet to recall your damnation."

"Can you?" the man asked, clearly in awe his voice changed utterly.

Shirra, already on her knees, folded over and prayed and thanked.

When done, she got up and regarded the man who was agape.

"You're a true Muslim sister! Here, in this hellhole of Earth, this place that holds no good, I find you!"

"…the sign..." the man mumbled over and over, shaking.

Shirra said nothing, waiting for the fit to subside. She looked at the man's face and recalled images from her early childhood. Images of the prophet. This man…

"Forgive me, sister! What's your name, sister?"

"Shirra."

"Go in peace, sister. No one will touch you anymore, I promise that!"

"Who are you?"

"I'm… I shouldn't."

He left her, disappearing into the dark like a shadow.

Shirra squinted into the dark, standing alone in the park.


	9. Chapter 9

9\. Back Home

Her mind was overflowing with all that had happened. The man who'd looked so much like the prophet, just like the scriptures described! He'd called her a Muslim. That was an ancient term, no one used that anymore. Not even the high and mighty of her world, the Blanches, they would not use that word ever. If she hadn't been such a good history student, she'd not have known that ancient word.

Well, ancient in her world. Here it was supposedly 1981. How long ago was that in her world? How long before her time was that? Hundreds of years, at least!

Sighing, she trudged on, homeward bound. The adrenaline was dissipating and she was shivering. It was cold, her muscles ached, the kick to her pelvis burned. Those two men had been vicious, but they had fled before the guy with the gun. And then, the gun-wielder had been so surprised she followed the prophet.

How strange. Didn't everybody?

She looked around her, seeing nothing to link to her state of mind. What would people believe in, around here? In this time? If the time here was really so far back in the past, would people not yet have been converted to the true belief?

At one time, the Christians had been the main power, she knew from the history lessons.

Christians were different, she knew that. But humans, they mostly didn't believe anything. They believed in themselves, as a rule. The humans here were so different, like the beliefs would be too!

"I can't be expected to serve them!" she concluded. Yes, she'd defended her own. That was the right thing, even against those who looked like blanches but acted so different that they were, well, _animals_!

Continuing on, down the street, Shirra watched the darkening sky and the buildings. It would be another trek to the place she called her home here.

Here. Greg's world?

A world full of humans!

Thoughts swirled through her mind. She had attacked a human, hadn't she?

No!

She rebuked that thought, it was _not_ a human, not in the sense of the blanches.

A subconscious stroke tried to poke her with arguments, saying she was wrong and bad. The new Shirra easily batted the notions aside. She was mad now. The humans here weren't special! They were mad.

Greg was a human, but how special was he?

The rain began to fall again, again the large drops splashing on the street in puddles and on her wet fur. How far was it still?

Relieved she saw Luckily she'd made it. In her anger, she'd plodded on and reached the door to the apartment building.

Finally!

The doorknob didn't turn. She gave it a tentative tug but the door didn't yield.

It was locked.

"Of course it's locked!" she admonished herself. But, it's an unpleasant thing, to argue with yourself when you're standing in the pouring rain. She pushed the bell of their apartment repeatedly to no effect.

Vivian should have answered the door by now.

What on Earth was Vivian doing? She should deliver her Head of the Household from rain! When nothing changed, Shirra finally settled for calling on the landlord. "What else can I do?" she growled.

The unsavory Vincent did react to her calling at the door. That in itself was good, but he'd probably blow a fuse in the process. Shirra silently hoped she would appear needy. Vincent pushed open the door with a red face of anger, going, "You! What do you want, you miserable dog?"

"Let me in, please. I don't have a key, Greg is not at home."

The landlord looked at her, his puffy face deflated when he reached a decision. "Get your sorry ass in, and don't you think you can splash all over my carpets!"

"No Sir! Sorry sir!" she said and splashed past him up the stairs. Her backpack swung right into the belly of the man who gasped because of this, right when he was swearing, "stinking wet walkin' rag". Once Vince caught his breath he called "Hey!" and then some profanities after her. Deep inside, she felt it was beyond all bounds, to be so aggressive, so mean, to any human. That mindset melted in the hot shine of the unpleasant words the man called up the stairs.

"Well," Shirra reasoned, "It may be unbecoming for an Assistant, but something isn't right around here!" For an Assistant it would even be dangerous to think so demeaning of humans!

The new Shirra didn't mind a bit.

"Sorry," she called over her shoulder instead while she trudged up the stairs. Vincent decided to follow her. Perhaps he was fascinated to see how she would get into the apartment.

Vincent was a mediocre man at best.

Finally, in front of the door with the embossed plastic 'nine', she knocked a few times but got no reply.

"Viv!" she called loudly, while lowering the heavy backpack onto the floor.

Then, switching to the common language, she called out, "if you don't open this door this instant I will _chastise_ you in ways never before seen by any maid, is that clear?"

A stumbling noise could now be heard behind the door. Apparently her threat had arrived. As soon as the doorknob turned, Shirra gave a push. Vivian stood frowning and scratching her head, looking rather wild.

Shirra saw her 1st maid was in a state! She quickly turned around to face Vincent.

"Seen enough?" she asked nastily and slammed the door in his face.

What had transpired here? Everything still looked clean, all right, but something was reeking unpleasantly. She looked aside to Vivian. "What is that smell?"

Vivian coughed and licked her teeth nervously. "Dunno."

"Vivian! Out with it!"

"I… I'm sorry lady Shirra," Vivian bowed her head, "I … ate a mouse."

Shirra frowned, taking this in and then with eyelids pulled taut to slits, she stared Vivian down. "Are you… digressing, or just hungry?"

Vivian sniffed, sad, and nodded, "It's… the former I fear, I… "

"OK, so a mouse. Is that a reason to look so disheveled?"

Vivian said nothing but looked astonishingly guilty.

"Vivian?" Shirra asked, her patience stretched to the limit, "What _did_ you do?"

Vivian buried her eyes in her palms. "I'm failing you, lady! Oh I'm so sorry! I can't wear this," she held on to her black dress, "I'm not a maid!"

"I do not care how sorry you are, what did you do?"

"It's Amandine lady, she, she… was thirsty and I gave her water from that special bottle. I swear I didn't recognize it!"

Shirra relaxed. "So, Amandine got a sip from that bottle? Well, she didn't like it and you lost some of the concoction…" Shirra's words stuck in her throat when she saw the look Vivian gave her.

With a dangerous edge to her voice, Shirra demanded, "How much did she drink, Vivian?"

"I… she… she emptied it and…"?

"The special bottle? Which bottle are we talking?"

Shirra was clutching at a straw, for she knew full well there was only one bottle in the house. It couldn't be!

Vivian walked to the cupboard in the kitchen and took a clear bottle from it. Shirra noted how Vivian was moving with a careful cat-tread. This was unbelievable! Vivian really _was_ losing her mind, this was another disaster!

When Vivian held up the bottle, there was perhaps one centimeter of the agent in there. "For the love of the prophet!" Shirra prayed, her hands clasped, "She drank _all_ of that?"

Vivian nodded.

Shirra put her hands on her head, pulling her hair in frustration. Maybe she could make Amandine vomit?

"When was this, Vivian, when?"

"Right after you left, … Boohoohoo!"

Vivian sat on the floor on her knees, crying with her fists digging into her eyes and shaking. She was in hell, that much was clear. This place was probably getting to her as well, this terrible world with its hordes of unpleasant humans! Well, she deserved it for doing this terrible deed!

Shirra recovered, sighing. "What is done is done. Get up Vivian, I will think how to punish you for this later."

Relieved, Vivian got up and waited at the sink, not daring to move all the while expecting something from Shirra. Shirra hadn't the time to take it out on Vivian right now. Her mind raced but eventually came up empty handed.

"Too late," Shirra realized. The whole bottle! She'd no idea what this would do to the little Amandine. She suddenly realized her 'new' mindset might even be the result of the gene-altering compound she'd synthesized. Well, she decided after a look at Amandine who seemed oblivious, perhaps the agent wouldn't be compatible with the little one?

Amandine appeared fine.

A smile crept into the corners of her mouth. Who could say? It would be like water to her, just with a funny taste. After today she had no desire to become any more human than she might be by now. The potion she'd designed to make her more like a human so Greg would like her more was a mistake!

What a laughable idea that seemed now.

"Ah well, Amandine is still alive," Shirra concluded.

Vivian burst out crying, "Sniff! Yes… boohoo… Sniff, she is all right, I was so worried about her and, sniff…"

Shirra walked to Vivian, slapped her hard in her face to bring her around to reason.

"Stop it, you're not helping. You will help me get out of this wet dress and get me a towel."

Vivian immediately went about it and together they got the dress off, keeping it in one piece. Then Shirra stood drying herself with a towel while Vivian carefully wrung the dress. Shirra noted with relief Vivian wasn't 'gone' too far yet.

"You know, Viv, this place is filled with mad humans. Back to front."

Vivian sniffed once more, wiped her eyes with her wrist and nodded. Shirra decided this was about the best she could achieve and went to check on Amandine. She was on her blanket in the corner, being quiet, with staring eyes of tiredness.

Shirra went to her knees, "Hi little girl, how are you?"

Shirra felt the little coyote girl all over, searching for anything out of the ordinary. No bumps, no rashes or rough spots. Not hot or cold. Amandine was the picture of health with a shine to her coat that would be the envy of anyone. The little girl let this happen but Shirra noted the little one looked unhappy when she was touched.

Satisfied Amandine was fine, she went to the bedroom and regarded her image in the mirror of the wardrobe.

"What a mess," Shirra said. Her fur was tangled, her long thick hair was even worse. She coughed suddenly, and topped this off with a rasp. And she rasped again, feeling her head. An unpleasant heavy feeling in her head made her frown. What was this feeling? She sniffed, and felt how this burned slightly in her nose.

"Vivian, get me a glass of water, I'm parched!" And she was hungry! She accepted the glass with the horrible chlorine-smelling water. Being thirsty, this was not too much of a problem. Food was, though. There was only stale bread and peanut butter to eat, but when you're hungry it tastes fine.

Shirra noticed how the simple act of swallowing gave a very unpleasant sensation in her throat. It felt constricted in a way. Very unusual.

They sat at the table, Vivian in her black dress and Shirra wrapped in nothing but a bed sheet. She had no idea of time, there wasn't a single clock in the house. Vivian still looked apprehensive.

"Do you think Amandine will be all right?"

"Do you?" Shirra retorted, angrily, feeling anything but right.

"I don't know! I know nothing, I feel so stupid! I have finished the training for assistant and right now my head is failing me, it's maddening."

Shirra felt her throat which was hurting. "Gee, glad you recognize this."

"Lady Shirra! You need not patronize me that way, I do my best."

"You have chucked my concoction into that little coyote; the results of that action may still be disastrous. When Master Greg returns…"

She stopped, feeling lightheaded and clear in her mind in a funny way.

This was going to end here, now.

"Viv, you are almost a Maid. You are a self-conscious being and you carry the sole responsibility for your actions. You have to reach your own decisions in matters."

"Huh?"

"You heard me; things in this household are up to you. You're on your own."

"On my own? Are you firing me? You can't fire me! You can kill me, whip me, I don't know what all you can do, but you can't fire me."

"I'm not firing you. You can stay and do what you will. One thing you must learn is that Master Greg is not your master."

"But master Greg, he…"

"Not 'master', Viv, Greg is a human. The same idiotic sort you find around here."

Vivian's eyes went large with disbelief.

"You can't be serious! What about your dress, your station?"

"My red dress! Ha!" Shirra snorted and decided not to try that again given the unpleasant feeling in her throat, "In this world Viv, it means exactly nothing. Listen to your heart, Vivian. The only reason you think highly of humans is because you were brought up to think so. It's all training, no thinking. I have begun to think for myself now. Greg has said before that I was putting him on an unjust pedestal. Well, he was right! Things will not be the same if I can help it, and I can!"

"I don't follow, Lady Shirra."

"There is nothing to follow. Right now, I would like to kick you to pieces, shave you bald, whatnot, all because you have put that little kid there into danger."

She pointed her thumb to the little coyote in the corner. Looking over her shoulder, she saw Amandine was again playing with her wooden puzzle toy. It had been made by Blackie the bear from the cleft. It seemed to be the only thing in Amandine's world that was solid, tangible.

A hard, wooden toy. Amandine held it, fondled it even. Normally a kid that age had a soft cuddly toy. Shirra shook her head slowly, what sort of mind was in there?

Turning back to the blue eyed cat before her, she noted something was going on there as well. Vivian's eyes were distant.

A short hiss escaped Vivian upon which she slapped her own head, her eyes refocused.

"Sorry."

"Vivian, you understand me?"

"I do, it's far-fetched. Besides, if it is true then I outrank you for my blue eyes, right?"

"Wrong, that means nothing here, absolutely nothing."

Vivian shook her head slowly. "How can that mean nothing? Blue eyes are better, everyone knows that. Blue eyes are true."

"No they're not, they show something is missing. Don't get smart on me; I'm faster and meaner than you think, Vivian."

Vivian looked at her, she frowned. "I will tell you something lady Shirra. I don't like you, I never have."

Shirra dismissed that, after all Vivian was going through a belated puberty and was showing all the signs of post-traumatic stress. "Good, get it off your chest."

"And another thing, I don't want you to wear my underwear anymore. Is that clear?"

"Fine, I don't want to anyway because it doesn't fit too well."

Vivian digested this. She clearly hadn't expected this reaction.

Shirra swallowed against her painful throat. "If you don't like me, Viv, you leave here and try your luck with that sorry lot outside for a change, see how you like it."

Shirra got up and started to heat water for tea. She really needed something warm for her throat which felt sore. The abysmal electrical stove took ages to produce hot water but with the teabag it resulted quickly in a pot of tea.

Shirra blew on her mug, took a sip and looked at Vivian who had regarded her moves silently.

"So, Vivian, you wasted my super potion. That was a rotten thing to do. You are in luck though, it is a potion which might make me appear more human-like and by now I seriously wonder if there is any sense in such a wish."

Vivian's eyes grew large with admiration. "Wow! You think you were able to make that? Not even the Lady Remonovna…"

Shirra interjected, "In the world I was with Greg before, they had all these wonderful machines… I made great progress there and finished it off in the laboratory of the lady Remonovna.

"You were in there? Wow!"

"I was. Not that it helped, mind you. That lady is a real human, just like Greg said. She would fit in well, together with the idiots I find here. I begin to understand a lot about our world, Vivian. The furry part of our world has abided by the wishes of humans far too long."

As she said, it, she realized there was something in Greg that was good. Back in Campone, Greg had felt that the skunk family should remain intact. The whole notion of 'correcting' a skunk by removing the tail and the musk glands felt ridiculous now, while it would have sounded like gospel to her only this morning!

"We'll need to get some food," Vivian said, got up and suddenly grasped her head moaning, "Ow! Ow! Ow!"

"Are you all right?"

Vivian stopped moaning and looked up, she sat and pulled her legs up trying to tick her ear with her foot. This failed of course, her leg was too long. Her head didn't understand this though. Vivian licked her paw and pulled it through her short hair, repeating a few times. Then she looked at her paw as if she saw it for the first time, and then looked a little more intelligently at it, then to her.

"I…" she began and stopped, looking to her licked hand.

"A minute ago you said you never liked me, remember?"

"Shirra, you are maybe the only one around here who I can trust. Will you care for me, should I degenerate to a wild cat for real?"

"Of course, Viv," she said to appease, even if she didn't know she meant it. Right now the worrisome thing was she was feeling worse every minute.

Her head felt as if it was pounding, a weird head ache of sorts.

"It's warm here," Shirra complained.


	10. Chapter 10

10\. Hey girl

Shirra stared at the table, at the tea in her mug.

Her head hurt.

No, worse; it pounded as if her brain didn't fit in her skull.

She'd always thought she knew what hardship was but this headache was something different, it was totally alien to her to feel so bad.

Part of her just wanted to sleep, to shut down. This urge was conflicting with another part of her that really didn't want her to move her head, _at all_. The idea of moving a single muscle already sounded a whole contingent of alarms: "don't!"

How would it be to just die right here, right now, be over with it?

How long would this take?

What time would it be?

Shirra tried to yawn and at the same time couldn't for the headache. The very idea of straining any head-muscle caused panic, which caused more stress and more pain. Instead she just groaned.

Outside the building, someone brought a car to a stop with a high pitched whine. Shirra squeezed her eyes shut, battling the sound that felt like a knife in her head, unable to think straight. Shortly after that someone was trying to open the door to their apartment.

She very carefully turned around, wincing. After a lot of rummaging around with the lock, the door flew open and Greg appeared.

"Amandine!" he boomed, standing a bit unsteady, "Daddy's home!"

He strode in and looked around, searching for the little coyote.

Shirra put her hands over her ears, in a futile attempt to shut the noise out. Why did Greg have to make such a racket? Her eyes saw not Greg but a human, someone, grieving her. Perhaps, only now did she see clear, only now the image registered in its unperturbed form.

Instead of Greg the Master and True Human, there stood a little brown man with black hair matted to his forehead. He was shorter in stature than she and soggy in the midsection. The heavily used black army boots were dirty with grime from the slaughter house. The green camouflage-trousers showed a band of spats of all body fluids animals may lose in such a place, from some height up an apron must have protected his clothes. The old camouflage jacket was torn in places and made him appear more like rubble than a war-hero.

The man's face was ruddy; the eyes glinted with giddy happy pleasure. Greg's eyes did not emit a lot of friendliness despite his intimate demeanor.

What a dolt, what a waste, what a deception!

That he appeared unsteady on his feet was only fitting for a bum.

Completing the image was something else, the smell. A particular odor reached her nose, confirming Greg's alcohol intake. In addition, he stank, of blood and gore. It upset her stomach.

Very much so.

At long last, Greg noticed Amandine and he went to hug her. The little one exuded happiness upon that. Then he let Amandine down on her blanket and approached the cats at the table. Greg slapped a fifty dolly bill down and a package which smelled of meat.

Woozy, Greg blathered, "Girls! I've carved seventy bucks together today! How about that? Boss says I can come again, he likes me, I says!"

Shirra looked at the package. That smell! Fresh meat, yes. Good meat, yes. But her stomach…

Greg went on, "…Vivian, you cook up some d…"

Her stomach couldn't take it.

"Buaah!" Shirra spilled her peanut butter sandwich over the table. It just kept coming! She felt awful retch after retch ransacking her frame. Gore and dribble ran through her nose and her head exploded with the effort of more retching.

"Fuck!" Greg yelled appalled, "The food! Save the food!"

Greg snatched the meat away and started unwrapping it in the hope of salvaging the contents before the stomach contents could taint it.

"Stupid cat!" Greg shot her an angry look and put the meat on a plate, "what's gotten into you? Since when don't you like meat?"

Vivian got up, clean and unscathed against all logic of physical transport phenomena of the fluid mass on the table. Somehow the puke hadn't touched her.

"Can't you see she's not well?" she asked, in an uncertain voice. She wasn't sure if she had understood Shirra correctly, but she was also certain that she could explain her words in enough ways if Master Greg was more Blanche after all.

"I don't care what she's feeling like! No reason to puke over my food!"

"Your food?" Vivian demanded, her confidence building since Greg didn't threaten her with her life for being so outspoken in her previous comment.

"Hey!" Greg retaliated, "I expect you to be a nice maid and shut up, kitten!"

Vivian's eyes narrowed. A Master wouldn't stoop to such a discussion. Shirra was right! Somewhere in her head she affirmed the knowledge Greg wasn't to be treated as a Blanche and she growled, "No!"

Greg stopped his tirade and tried to focus. It was hard, in his intoxicated state. He tried to slap her, but missed pitifully. Vivian stood akimbo, between Greg and the table; Shirra looked dreary eyed upon the mess on the table where bits had begun dripping to the floor. She felt miserable beyond description.

"What's this then? A mutiny?" Greg wanted to know, while some sort of realization was beginning to pierce his hazy cloak of booze.

"Shirra said I'm my own boss now, Greg!"

"Then Shirra's fuckin' out of her mind. And something else! It's not _her_ call anyway!"

"Ha!" Vivian challenged, "You're so wrong! It _is_ her call! She told me all about how it works in this world!"

"Listen up kitten," Greg wavered a pointing finger at her, "you better be- be- nice to me! I can cast you out _just_ like that! You don't want to know what they do to _lady_ dogfaces here."

Vivian felt better than ever, tilted her head and pouted a smile, "Are you threatening me?"

"..ohhhh…" Shirra moaned, behind her, followed by a loud BANG as her chair fell over, with her on it.

The bickering pair turned around and shot an angry look at the interruption before they realized, simultaneously, that Shirra was in need of aid.

Shirra hit the floor, a white fur-in-sheet-pile stinking of puke. The smell was getting worse quickly and Greg had to work to keep from gagging.

"What the…" Greg began and forgot about his sunny feelings, forgot about his money, about Vivian.

"Shirra?" he asked, concerned.

"Ohhhh"

"Damn!" Greg swore and he got to his knees, next to her, "Viv, can you start cleaning up while we're still in the near-gagging state?"

"Yes _sir_ ," she mock-agreed but got the bucket out while battling the urge to retch.

Shirra was on her back, wrapped in the sheet. Her stomach juices continued running down the table, dripping on her legs but she was oblivious to the fact. She stared at the ceiling with a pained and hollow look in her eyes.

A very unwelcome memory hit Greg, he knew that stare. The realization triggered feelings that minimized the intoxication. He'd lost a friend with that stare in the eyes, a good friend. In his mind's eye he saw Sasha the bear biding him farewell.

"Not again!" Greg growled under his breath and wanted to caress her head. This was so hot he nearly recoiled.

"Shirra! Oh my God! Baby, you're burning up!" Greg quickly retrieved a pair of Tylenols and forced them down her throat with water.

Shirra spat and coughed, whining before she dropped to the floor like she was dead.

"Shirra!" Greg yelled in panic.

The downstairs neighbors of course bumped on their ceiling, with a muffled staccato screaming, "Shut! The! Fuck! up!"

Greg checked Shirra's pulse. It was racing and irregular.

"Vivian!" he looked up, "You've had maid-training, what do you think?"

Vivian had cleaned the most of the mess and sat down next to Greg, "I never was the best in my class," she apologized. She handed Greg a wet towel indicating he should clean Shirra up.

He set to work, asking with hopeful tone, "You will know more than I, right?"

"I think," Vivian said and frowned puzzled, "I think," she felt Shirra's head, pulse, listened to her breathing, "I think,"

"Well? Spill it!"

Vivian knew almost for sure what was going on but how could she possibly tell Greg? Moreover, if this were true, if Shirra had thought of Greg in a way to cause this…

Vivian looked at Greg. He was a dolt. No doubt about it. Why would Shirra then fall sick? Ticking off the options she mumbled, "But, that's impossible!"

"What is it?"

"I think…"

"Viv! What? Is she going to die? She isn't, she can't! I need her! I can't lose her!"

"But, it's not, she couldn't have, I mean…"

Greg started crying, "No! I can't lose her! Shirra!"

Vivian sat on her knees, staring ahead weirdly, straining her head to figure it out. Finally she concluded there was still one unusual explanation.

Greg cradled Shirra to him, whispering, "I can't lose you, Shirra! I… love you!"

"She's got all the signs of a thorax infection," Vivian said simply, her whiskers vibrating.

Greg looked at her, softly rocking Shirra, holding her to him. "In layman's terms?"

"She's got the flu."

"In one day?"

"It's just beginning," Vivian mused, "and I don't understand how..." she went on doubting herself.

"Beginning? You mean it's going to get worse?"

"I don't know. I never saw flu victims. But she shouldn't have this."

Greg kept rocking the unresponsive Shirra softly, "What do you mean?"

"We're genetically incompatible with the flu. We can't get any known viral disease. I mean, maids never get sick. Even bacterial infections are-"

"The flu on this world is apparently not known," Greg interjected.

"I didn't get the flu," Vivian objected.

Greg shook his head, "That's not how it works."

Vivian disregarded the stupid comments from Greg. He really didn't know the first thing about physiology! "Actually, Greg, it _is_ how it works. Besides I recall the template for flu is very broad and it's not possible to get any viral infection through the same pathway."

"You're talking gibberish, Viv."

Vivian looked at him with contempt.

###

Greg sat next to Shirra in their newly made, clean bed. The cat-shaped lady under the thin layer of sheets was moaning softly. Her temperature was dangerously high but the drugs Greg had forced into her seemed to have effect.

"I don't know if you can hear me, Shirra," Greg said softly, "I am so sorry if anything I did caused this to happen."

Vivian stood at the door; she was holding Amandine who was tired again. The little coyote girl had slept a lot today. She had eaten but only because Greg had spoon-fed her, spurring her on all the time, "one for daddy, one for mommy Shirra, one for aunt Vivian..."

Greg removed the thermometer from Shirra's behind. He didn't want to chance a misreading by using mouth or armpit. "105" he said darkly, looking at Vivian hopeful.

"105? That can't be right," she replied his questioning stare, "water boils at 100 degrees?"

Greg shook his head irritated. Bloody Fahrenheit… he stuck his hand into his pocket and searched until he produced his nice white piece of plastic that was a high tech phone from a very different age. He looked at it. It was a 2020-or-so device. With a rueful smile, he realized the great grandfather of the first real usable smart-phone was still in the laboratories of its company.

The fact he was holding a piece of immense high tech, relative to 1981 USA was funny but it didn't help his quest right now. Greg moved his thumb over the thing and it came alive. At once the whole front of it showed a little animation: "Battery life limitation warning, estimated remaining run time 250 hours"

Greg shook the phone a bit, seeing the message being replaced by:

"Emitters disabled."

"Whatever," Greg shrugged. Then he used the '2010' internet copy to search for the conversion.

"40.5 degrees Centigrade" he read and looked at Vivian.

"Not healthy," she said.

"Is that all you can come up with?" he asked sarcastically.

Vivian looked at him in that unpleasant way again. Greg's body reading sense told him she was mocking him and he didn't understand why. He felt helpless.

"Shirra?" Greg asked softy.

Shirra shuddered and her eyes flew open, unseeing.

Greg noted the terror in there. Vivian saw it too, he noted from the corner of his eyes.

"Get me a bucket and a cloth!" he ordered.

Vivian didn't move.

"Please?" he asked, with as much acid as he could muster.

"Yes, _sir!_ "

With Vivian gone, Greg wondered what had suddenly gotten into her.

When Greg was done dabbing Shirra's brow with the damp cloth he took up Vivian. Her blue eyes shone in the lamplight that fell into the bedroom through the open door. Amandine's green cat-eyes lit up similarly. The difference between those looks couldn't have been bigger!

"Vivian," Greg said gravely, "I have to be able to count on you."

Still that silent stare.

"Okay," Greg thought, "if you want to play hard…"

"You speak English, don't you?" he asked.

"It would seem so." This sounded amused.

"Been able to read anything yet?"

This caught her totally off guard.

"Labels on the cleaning agents? The newspaper? The signs outside, perhaps?"

Vivian was young and definitely at the rebellious age of an adolescent. Shirra had told Greg these were human traits that were no less pronounced in her kind than in humans and the fangs and talons that came with the package meant the blanches were used to forcing young maids into shape.

The employed methods had seemed harsh but now Greg was facing Vivian who thought she was freer than free.

"I can learn," Vivian rebuked him.

"Sure. A few weeks, it took Shirra to reach reasonable reading skills."

"Pff," Vivian seemed unimpressed.

"She was the best of her class, you know?"

Now Vivian stood less confident. Greg saw her awkward turn of her body at once. Greg pressed, "The best of her year, you know?"

"Yes!" Vivian snapped, " _Everyone_ knows!" and took Amandine back to the other room.

"That was easy," Greg said to the seeming sleeping Shirra. She breathed way too quickly for a restful sleep, though.

"I'm not sure if there is a God here," Greg prayed, "but if there is, you can't let her die."

"You can't die," he said to her, softly at her ear, "we've been through too much!"

Too much, he realized. They'd shared too much and survived things of much less taxing odds. Situations that didn't have a reasonable reason to let them live. To succumb now to a cold… Vivian had said they were perfect beings, no virus could touch them.

"You can't die," Greg said again, like a mantra, "because you're perfect."

He sighed.

"Perfect, for me."

Using the cloth, he cooled her brow again.

"Perfect, for Campone."

He wrung the water from the cloth.

"Perfect, for your world… this world… the whole damn multiverse."

###

The next morning Greg left for the slaughter house. Vivian seemed to have thought things over and silently cleaned the house. At times he wasn't sure about what was going on with Vivian. He hoped Shirra would quickly recover.

In the car to the plant, Greg thanked his neighbor, Jeff, once more.

"I should pay you for the use of your washing machine."

"Ha!" said he, "You're a decent sort and you've a sick dog," referring to Shirra, "Besides, the wife'd have my head if I didn't help you out."

"Maybe…" Greg suddenly realized, "I can help you! My other dog can help your wife with cleaning the place!"

Jeff nodded. "Like I said, a decent sort!" and he gave Greg a mighty clap on the shoulder.

###

Why she did, he didn't know, but Vivian wasn't difficult about the additional work. At least she didn't have to go down the street to have their laundry washed. Greg noted that such a task seemed daunting to her and he thought back to her aggressive stance.

He spent a long evening with a notebook, Amandine in his lap, next to Shirra, working on equations to get his mind off things.

Carving meat off bones during the day was OK. He was good at it but it was hard work. Every evening his muscles told him he was overdoing it. The mathematics, the equations helped him through things. Thinking the numbers and symbols over and over was what brought calm and clarity.

Clarity sadly meant he realized he was stuck, fast. Nowhere to go, no means to increase his wage, to find better lodgings. He couldn't drive a car from his income, even!

Another side to the clarity was the understanding of the equations. This understanding did however frustrate him as the equations didn't seem to work out. He was unable to capture a working solution, a way to make Cally's famous field work without the aid of a computing system the likes of which was not available in this time and age. However, the reality was that he'd arrived through a clearly working setup, so he kept searching for an error in his theory.

A few evenings later, he sat at the kitchen table across from the ever silent Vivian.

"Vivian," he began and she looked up. This time, she had that weird look in her eyes again he had noticed before.

"Is something wrong?" he asked, instead of what he wanted to ask.

For a moment her brow knitted, the eyes glazed over but then she shook it off and asked, surprised, "what?"

"What just happened?" Greg asked, suspicion creeping into his voice.

"Nothing."

"I'm not a fool, Vivian," Greg fed Amandine another spoonful.

"It doesn't concern you," she said firmly.

"Listen, you're entitled to your life and your secrets, but just now you looked, well, _feral_."

He noted the shocked reaction, which she tried to cover up with a staccato, "It's nothing!"

"OK, don't get worked up. If you're sure…"

"I'm sure!"

"Something else, Vivian."

"Hmm?" she chewed on a piece of meat.

"Shirra seems to be doing better, but there's one thing I don't understand."

Vivian waited for him to continue.

"I recall now she also maintained you cats couldn't get any diseases; just like you said."

"Apparently she was wrong and I'm too dumb."

Greg ignored the hate in that comment.

"I'd have imagined that anything that could get her would also get you?"

"I'm not flawed like her. I'm perfect."

Greg looked at her, hard.

"What?"

He looked at her blue eyes, her white fur. Shirra always said that her green eyes made her stand out as imperfect. In her world, a white cat with blue eyes was perfect. Those assets alone seemed to be enough. Never mind Shirra's enormous set of skills; she had been the best in almost any field a 'maid' was supposed to be good atin. And Vivian here, she hadn't made any progress at all with reading or writing. In fact, from time to time her English was littered with the Chinese-sounding words from the common language of her world.

Perfect? Ha!

It was late and Greg needed his sleep. Vivian slept on the couch in the kitchen and he slept next to Shirra. Tomorrow Ilse would come visit them. It had seemed rather important. 'Better be home', the woman'd said.

"We'll have to get Shirra to the toilet before night."

Vivian nodded wearily.

###

It wasn't Ilse, who appeared. It was the man, Adam.

Adam looked around their little house with undisguised loathing. Greg had made sure the ladies, all three of them, were in the bedroom and the door closed.

"Where's your dog-troupe?" Adam asked.

"I'm not entirely sure that is any of your business," Greg replied politely.

"Ah, my job-stealing Legal Alien, but it is! You see, it is! Ilse is busy with high and mighty things on that weird installation and I get to drive to the crazy part of town visiting folks with mongrels."

"I beg your pardon?"

Adam was walking on air, Greg saw; the man felt like the proverbial million bucks and had decided to take it out on him, whatever 'it' was and whatever 'it' caused.

"You heard me! I'm not one of them mog-lovin' nincompoops"

"Nincompoops," Greg repeated slowly.

"You can stuff your snotty British accent where the sun don't shine, buddy."

Greg had talked enough with his neighbor to know that in the USA a civil servant could not ever have this kind of power.

"Sir," Greg waited for Adam to stop walking around, "You are aware that options are available to all, to file complaints about civil workers?"

Adam stopped; clearly not mindful he might be challenged on this.

"Your word against mine," he finally produced but he repaired his attitude nevertheless.

"Am I keeping you?" Greg asked, unsure why the man didn't leave after handing over the official 'Resident, Legal Alien" papers. That didn't sound like citizen to him but it was at least legal and real.

Then, from the bedroom, came a scream.

"Daaaaddy!"

It was Shirra, screaming in the common language.

"Don't gooooo!"

Greg rushed into the bedroom and Adam trailed him.

"Shirra!" Greg called, seeing her looking around wildly. Her eyes rested on him and she blinked difficult.

Vivian engaged Adam and led him to the other room, closing the door behind them.

"Shirra?" Greg asked, but she seemed to look right through him.

"Daddy?" Shirra asked in common.

"Easy girl," Greg sat next to her while Amandine curled up tighter in a fright and he reached out to her as well, stroking her back to appease her too.

Shirra slowly laid back and kept repeating, "daddy… daddy…"

Finally she settled down to a deep sleep.

"I hope that is about the last of it," Greg said to Amandine, "she's been out of it for four days now."

Vivian came back in.

"Mister Adam is still in the kitchen, Greg?"

"Yeah, great."

"Yes, he seems a real nice gentleman!"

Greg looked to Vivian but saw only a love-stricken kitten. What kind of lies had that Adam fed her now?

Greg whispered, "Adam is not that nice, Vivian."

"You're jealous of his station."

"I'll tell you a secret! Adam is worse than Ilse. Take my word for it."

Vivian got close to him, softly. "Really? Ilse is bad too?"

"Come on, she's shagging the doctor, a married guy! Lovely couple."

Vivian said nothing for a moment, thinking.

"I shall keep Adam company then?"

Greg's mind was preoccupied with Shirra when he said, "Sure."

Vivian left with a light tread.

Sometime after that the front door slammed closed and Greg finally tore his eyes loose from Shirra to find the other room empty.

"Vivian?" he called but it was not as if she would be hidden under the boards. He rushed to the window to see Vivian being guided, and elegantly too, to the car of Adam.

"That weaseling little fucker!" Greg cursed, seeing this he dashed out the door, thundered down the stairs, collided with Vincent who emerged from his door bowling them both over in a heap. A finer mix of British and New York curses was seldom heard.

Greg got up, ignoring the angry demands of 'Vince' and outside nearly got driven over by Adam. If the abysmal man could do anything, it was drive his little car! He steered right around Greg, nearly driving over his toes while the little car's little tires screeched on the tar of the street.

With a fist raised in the air he called, "be back before six, you hear me!"

Panting, he lowered his arm, feeling very stupid.

"Kid of yours?" a man across the street asked, amused.

"Sort of," Greg admitted, slinking back to the building where Vincent was certainly no less amused about his bout of apparent fatherly feelings.

"You need to put a leash on your dogs, boy!"

"Now he tells me," Greg said despondent.

Vincent laughed heartily, "That Adam guy won't touch your weird Mog, trust me."

"What makes you think that?"

"I'm a perfect judge of character, man! That guy is perfectly innocent."

"Ah, thanks," Greg managed, amazed by Vince's stupidity, while he slowly climbed the stairs.


End file.
